


Innocent Demon

by 4eyeswordsmith, tranimation, weapon13WhiteFang



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street (2010), A Nightmare on Elm Street - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 05:17:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16717217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4eyeswordsmith/pseuds/4eyeswordsmith, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tranimation/pseuds/tranimation, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weapon13WhiteFang/pseuds/weapon13WhiteFang
Summary: The life and times of Freddy Krueger, a gardener at a local preschool hiding a number of dark secrets, before the events of his "death" at the hands of the parents of Springwood.  Canonical (to the Platinum Dunes franchise): Horror: On-going. Rated M for violence, language, sexuality, with emphasis on rape, abuse, and paedophilia.





	1. The Gardener

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with Abri Isgrig (4eyeswordsmith) and myself (tranimation), with assistance of Liz Hartley (weapon13whitefang), _INNOCENT DEMON_ is a pastiche of our own interpretation of Freddy Krueger's origins for the _NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET_ (2010) reboot, which we've been working on-and-off for over a year. We decided to revise what we have of the story so far because, originally, it was written before we really knew anything about the remake. All we had was an early draft of the Platinum Dunes' script and our encyclopaedic knowledge of the Robert Englund franchise (as well as novels, books, comics, TV shows, etc); now that remake has been released, we decided to keep it closer to the context of the 2010 film. This story is a conglomerate of characters from the original and remake, along with our own personal (revised) theories about the character, the film, and the franchise itself, as well as original ideas...
> 
> Majority of these chapters were written by Abri Isgrig (4eyeswordsmith) and Diane N. Tran (tranimation). The splash pages above was created by Diane N. Tran (tranimation), with the intention of adding a new splash image for each chapter, possibly with the logo getting bloodier and bloodier as we get along. We'd also like to give a special shout-out to Liz Hartley (weapon13WhiteFang) for being our Grammar Nazi, who occassionally assists us in writing as well.
> 
>  _A NIGHTMARE OF ELM STREET_ © Wes Craven/Platinum Dunes/New Line Cinema

Weeding the last remnants of dead leaves and grass with a three-pronged fork, Freddy Krueger rested on his hands and knees while he stabbed a small spade into ground. Its surface was dried and cracked due to the heat of the summer sun, but the seasons were changing and autumn was approaching. It was a new school year at Badham Preschool, just a week in. He chiseled a hole and scooped through the rich soil that hid underneath before he dug another one beside it.

The man whistled to himself and feigned ignorance to the fact that the three small children were sneaking up behind him, sniggering behind their tiny hands, as he pretended to be focused on planting the new stonecrops and chrysanthemums.

"Wanna play tag with us, Mr. Freddy?" asked Kris Fowles, surprising him by jumping and hugging him from behind. "You're it!"

The gardener smiled at the child wickedly. Raising the gardening fork in his gloved hand in the air, his serpentine tongue slithered across his front teeth, which gleamed in delight. He hoisted his shoulders high, making himself look larger than he was, and exhaled a long, wild snarl and gritted his teeth, as he pretended he was a large bear. He watched Kris gasp at him and scurry away with a playful scream and a shrill giggle. He fell to the ground and laughed, wiping a happy tear from his eye.

Sweet girl. Only five years old. With shoulder-length, honey-blond hair. Such an angelic, little creature.

"Sounds fun," the gardener answered, turning to completely face Kris and her playmates. He groaned as he made to stand, feeling the individual bones of his spine pop, and winced.

"You okay, Mr. Freddy?" asked the little brunette, her hair tied to the side of her head, standing next to Kris.

Her name was Nancy Holbrook. Beautiful, little Nancy.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm all right," he nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just get stiff from being on my knees all the — _tag!_ " He grinned, as he lightly tapped his finger on Nancy's shoulder, letting out a joyous cackle before he broke into a slow jog, so the kids could try to catch him but still be ahead of their tiny grasps.

"Hey, no fair!" pouted Nancy, running after him as Kris and one of the boys, Quentin Smith, gave chase, all laughing gleefully.

Freddy ran behind a tree, grinning from ear to ear. Looking up, an idea struck him and he turned to face the tree, as Nancy, Kris, and Quentin tip-toed toward his hiding place.

"Got you, Mr. Freddy!" exclaimed Nancy, reaching out to pounce him. But Mr. Freddy was gone. She blinked, spinning in a circle and searching around the tree baffled. "Huh? Where'd he go?"

Kris and Quentin scratched their heads, as they both looked around with her with confusion upon their cherubic faces. The other children joined in, circling the tree, and poked at the bushes around it, only to gasp and jump when they heard the sound of a voice singing:  


_ONE, TWO... FREDDY'S COMING FOR YOU..._ 


Krueger jumped down from the tree branch he'd been sitting on. He had spotted the limb above his head and had quickly, though with less skills than his younger days, climbed up the trunk of the tree to hide. He landed with a mischievous "boo," causing the little ones to squeal with delight before they all went to tackle him when he attempted to stand.

"Oh, no, they've got me!" the gardener cried, sniggering, as they began to tickle him. Quentin and the other boys, Dean Russell and Marcus Yeon, clung to his legs and tickled his knees, while Kris and Nancy tickled his stomach. Jesse Braun and Leah Uteg went for his sides, as Freddy laughed and curled lightly, their tiny fingers poking and tickling him.

Neither Freddy nor the children saw the young, raven-haired teacher smiling at the sight on the playground.

Neither Freddy nor the children saw the young, raven-haired teacher smiling at the sight on the playground. Caressing her hands lightly over her tiny bulge of her stomach with contented sigh, Loretta Krueger chuckled at the thought of how a wonderful of father her husband would make before he finally took notice of her and attempted to squirm away from the children.

"Ack, Loretta! Help!"

"All right, kiddies, that's enough," said Loretta, clapping her hands for their attention. She was in full-on teacher mode now. The children all groaned and pouted, as she walked their way. "Your parents are here to get you. We'll see everyone tomorrow."

The kids all cheered, as they grabbed their little bags and lunch pails, laying against the fence where their parents were waiting. Eventually, two adults — Gwen Holbrook and Alan Smith — were the last to arrive, and they _always_ arrived last and _always_ at the same time. Nancy and Quentin each gave out calls of "Bye-bye, Miss Loretta" and "See ya tomorrow, Mr. Freddy," as they raced out to meet up with their ride.

"You alive, honey?" Loretta inquired with a sugary smile, offering her hand to help Freddy up.

"God, where the hell — excuse me — heck do kids get all that energy and where can I get some?" Freddy asked with a chuckle, combing his hair back and patting his pants to make sure that Smith boy, Quentin, didn't try to steal his wallet again. The kid had a skilful habit of it. Sneaky little brat.

Ah, good, wallet intact. Now, let's see if he still had cash in it...

"Fred, what happened to your hand?" asked Loretta with a small gasp, as Freddy pulled off his right glove in order to dig through his wallet. There was a long, clean gash diagonally across the back of his hand. Bits of lint from his glove had adhered to the now congealed blood, making it look painful.

"What, that? Must've accidentally knocked my hand against the pruning shears when I had my gloves off, that's all," Freddy replied with a careless shrug. He looked at the cut with disinterest, not really worried about it. He'd actually forgotten about it until Loretta pointed it out. "Bled like hell."

"Did you use the first aid kit we've got in the supply closet?" she asked, running her finger across the gash in examination.

"You had a class in the playroom at the time. I didn't want to freak 'em out. Like I said, it bled like hell. Probably best to clean it out now since I've been working in the dirt all day."

He looked down at his hands. His gloves were wearing out. The edges were tattered, the stitching was coming undone, and the leather was getting thin. He'd have to make a mental note to pick up a few spare pairs from the hardware store on his way home.

Loretta led her husband tenderly by his injured hand inside the preschool, unlocking a supply closet in the main playroom and pulling out the first aid kit. Freddy plopped down on a beanbag chair and leaned back.

"Oooh, gunna play 'Doctor,' are we?" he inquired with a mischievous smirk. "I _like_ that idea..."

Loretta shook her head, fighting not to smile, as she lightly dabbed rubbing alcohol on the cut. Freddy inhaled sharply, letting out a mild grunt of pain, as his fingers curling into his palm on instinct.

_Goddamn that stung!_

"That dampen your mood any?" Loretta teased, as she began to wrap a gauze bandage around the cut.

Freddy leaned forward with, gently nipping the bottom of her ear between his teeth, before whispering: "No, it only stoked the fire..." His voice turned husky and gruff. Loretta bit her bottom lip and her long lashes fluttered, feeling both uneasy and excited at the same time, as he ran his tongue lightly below her jaw. "I _need_ this, Lore. You have no idea—"

Loretta lightly pushed him away and continued to look down, as she finished bandaging his hand.

He'd often propositioned her for sex here. Normally, they'd sneak down to the maintenance room in the basement. He had set up a moth-eaten bed downstairs specifically for this reason. However, lately, Freddy had begun suggest that they should be a little more daring and make love in one of the classrooms. It was an idea that both frightened and enticed her. If they got _caught_...

Oh, but that was the least of her worries.

What worried her more was the fact that he _suggested_ it in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By personal request, this revised edition is _uncensored_. I prodded Abri consistently over this for more blood, more sex, more deprivation, more psychologically accuracy, and more Freddy being, well, Freddy as possible. The subject of paedophilia and serial rape, I believe, isn't something you should skate around. We're not condoning these, but desire to make it the audience aware of them, nor are we romanticizing the character into a "hero." In all seriousness, Freddy isn't a character you are meant to like. We wanted the audience to be "seduced" by the character into liking him, even sympathizing with him, and then feel _dirtied_ by his unapologetic actions and feel guilty for being seduced by him in the first place. This takes place before the "death" of Frederick Charles Krueger.
> 
> The character of Loretta Krueger originally appeared in _FREDDY'S DEAD_ and there's practically next to no information about the character. I've found a scant few sources — one referenced Freddy and Loretta were high school sweethearts, another referenced her as a waitress at a nearby diner while he worked as a janitor, or her surname was only referenced as "Johnson" and nothing more — but, nonetheless, all of them were unreliable; none of them, not a single one, had citations, period. The truth is that Loretta has never appeared in any other official novelizations, comics, or subsequent medias in general, so we practically made the character from scratch for this story. We hope to give her a stronger, more endearing personality this time around and a far more interesting history to boot.


	2. Of Sinners, Not Saints

Four years ago.

Just along the edge of Springwood, a forty-year-old shoved a lighter into his back pocket, took a long drag from a cigarette, pulling it from his lips, before handed it to a fifteen-year-old sophomore lounging against a brick of the St. Dymphna Catholic School. He watched her give him a honeyed smile, as she closed her eyes and puffed on the stick, sighing contently at the sweet taste of nicotine, before she blew a cloud from her lips. Oh, he could tell she'd needed that. Her last hit had been just before first period. She peered up from the cigarette to look at him through her long lashes, as he leaned on the rake in his hands. He felt the corners of his mouth twist upward, wetting his lips, and let his eyes admire her up and down, mentally undressing her before him.

Small, slim, sweet, and absolutely gorgeous. A short mop of black hair that made her appear younger than she seemed. Two bright, grey eyes under a pair of arched eyebrows. Pink lipstick. And all packaged in a uniform of black and white.

He leaned over and allowed his nose to nuzzle the side of her face, pursing his lips, as he drew in the scent of her hair with a half-shush, half-purr. She rolled her head back, mewing in response. Her hands flattened against the firm muscles of his chest, the cigarette curled between her fingers. Their lips hovered, their gazes hungry for the other. But their attention was instantaneously snapped away from one another when they heard the sound of clogged footsteps coming toward them. The fifteen-year-old dashed from his arms and scurried behind a giant oak tree.

"Good afternoon, Frederick," chirped Sister Mary Helena, the psychology instructor, merrily to the gardener.

"Guh—good afternoon, Sis—Sister...," he stammered, pulling down his sun hat, and crossed himself.

The nun couldn't help but smile at the gesture. She watched him attempt to ignore her by scooping a dead leaves into a pile with the rake.

"You cleaned up the old prayer garden beautifully," continued the nun, trying to get his attention. "I hardly recognize it."

"Still got a lot more work to do: Clean that putrid muck from fountain, replace the rusted piping, fix that death trap of a pavilion, get rid all of this poison ivy and oak, close these holes in the wall, clean off this graffiti, put up a new fence, some benches, trim these trees, and finish the landscaping. Maybe a little rock garden over here, and few statues over there."

"Sounds lovely. I hear it's your birthday today, isn't it?"

He straightened in surprise. "How did you—?" he caught himself in mid-sentence and shook his head; "I—I was adopted, Sister. I honestly don't know when my real birthday was."

The woman only smiled again, "Either way, I brought you a birthday present." Sister Mary Helena pulled out a silver pendant necklace from her holy habit and roped it around the gardener's neck. Resting her hands upon the top of his head, she recited a prayer.

He gave a loud, nervous swallow. He was uncomfortable enough, wanting to just vomit in his mouth, but now it felt like a lightning bolt from an angry god was about to burst his head into flames. When she finally released him, he took a step back and plopped the sun hat back on his head, drawing the brim down, so the nun couldn't seen the evil daggers shooting from his eyes.

"It's St. Fiacre, protector of gardeners," replied the old woman, showing off the decorative medallion, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Happy birthday, Frederick."

He grumbled an inarticulate thank-you under his breath, as he continued with his raking. The corner of his eye followed her, as she left the prayer garden with a skip in her step. He finally released a shiver down his spine when the nun finally disappeared back inside the school.

"I think she's trying to convert you, Freddy," sniggered the fifteen-year-old with a final drag, as she hopped out from her hiding spot, and dropped the finished remains of a cigarette butt into the pile of leaves.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust, yanking the dog collar from around his throat. "That fuckin' Christ bitch gives me the creeps. Here," he dropped the pendent and chain into her hands, "it'll look prettier on you than on this sinner."

He watched the girl giggled at the new gift, her eyes dancing, as she fastened it around her neck, before her hands seized his shirt collar, pulling him down to her level. She mischievously flicked her tongue upon the tip of his nose.

"Lunch hour ends in twenty minutes, Loretta," he moaned contently, disregarding the memory of the old crow of a woman from his consciousness, for all he could see is the little angel before him. "And you said you had a test next period?"

He saw her simper and felt her tongue skate across his teeth. "I can skip."

"No, you can't," he shut his eyes and reluctantly pulled away. When he opened them again, he noticed her bottom lip jut into an adorable pout of protest. "I dropped out of school and now look at me, Loretta. I barely have enough money to put food on the table and a roof over my head. I wouldn't want the same for you."

"Then we've got nineteen minutes to play..."

Loretta snaked her arms around his wide shoulders. She softly and sensually pressed her lips against his in a kiss, treading her fingers through his thick hair, while she gently tugged at his bottom lip in erotic promise. Freddy responded with a soft moan and his eyes rolled back into his head, as the fire rekindled between them.

He gave in to her, _completely_.

He drew her back and pinned Loretta against the flat brick on impulse, which caused her to gasp against his mouth, promptly ending the kiss. Studying the sparkle in her grey eyes and the smile upon her pink lips, his thumb swept across the stroke of her arched eyebrow, sliding down to encircle the beauty mark next to her right eye, before he explored the gentle slope of her cheekbone and ended by tracing the line of her mouth, as he drew her into the searing heat of his intense gaze, his blue eyes locked with her grey ones.

He hungrily crushed his lips upon hers, harshly forcing them together, allowing his tongue to plunder inside her mouth ravenously, as he rumbled a low, lengthy half-purr, half-growl at the back of throat that sent a shiver throughout their entangled bodies. The kiss was brutal and savage, punishing yet passionate, much like the man he'd like to think. But his grip on her was light. She could have easily pulled away and escaped. Even when the edge of his incisor nicked her bottom lip, tasting a whisper of the coppery blood with the sweetness of her strawberry-flavoured lipstick between their tongues, she met his lustful kiss with equal fervour.

Freddy felt her reach out and fumble with the fasteners of his pants in frustration. His arousal was pressing tightly against the fabric, making it nearly impossible to coax the zipper down. With a final tug, the zipper gave way and his manhood sprang free in attention. Eagerly, Freddy hiked up her plaid skirt, pantiless as always, ready and waiting, before he pushed sharply and deeply within her. They fit beautifully together, as if they were moulded for one another. Loretta mewed triumphantly, savouring the invasion, and arched her back against him, her arms gripping around his wide shoulders, like iron, and ground her hips against his. His strong arms lift her up to hook her long legs around his waist.

As they began to move against each other, their need became too great for a slow, languorous approach, as they hadn't the time nor the patience. Their coupling had to be fierce and intense. Wantonly, they writhed together, trembling, as their mouths sought the other; their desires unfettered under the watchful eyes of St. Dymphna and the Almighty God Himself. She whimpered and moaned, singing a litany to his name, and reveled the feel of each syllable upon her tongue, repeatedly, while her tiny fists clutched handfuls of his shirt. Faster and harder, they mated with unguarded abandon and fevered urgency, relishing the sensation of her slight, delicate form slide up and down against the brick with each untempered thrust. His dirty nails dug into the muscles of her legs and broke the skin, creating long, red scratches across her pale, porcelain-like flesh.

With wordless cries of rapture swallowed by one another as their erotic dance, Freddy committed every nuance of Loretta to his memory, making Loretta his and his alone. Every stroke and caress spoke vows through their bodies that no one but themselves could hear. Every breath and moan expressed volumes. They spasmed against one another, moving in rapid unison to a shattering crescendo, not wanting to break their carnal alliance. As a pair of savage cries tore from their throats, the sensation pushed the two over the edge and they climaxed together in an explosion of white at the sound of the school bell.

Lunch hour was over.

Gasping for air, the two remained locked in an embrace. Heaving a soft, silky sigh and curling a sinful smile, she brushed his damp hair from Freddy's face, tenderly kissing his forehead, while he grinned adoringly at her in return.

"When do I get to see you again?" he whispered between his laboured pants from exertion and satisfaction, burying his nose against the soft, fragrant curls of her raven hair.

"After the test," she answered, loosening her grip of his waist and reluctantly planting her feet back upon the earth with mortal men. Feeling the warm, white milk dribble down the inside of her leg, she hastily began straighten her uniform, pushing the wrinkles from the folds of her skirt, as she threw her book-bag over her shoulder. "I should finish early."

Pulling up his trousers, he pushed the leather through the buckle of his belt and fastened it. "And after that?"

"I'm going shopping with my parents."

Oh, the busy life of a spoiled, little rich kid.

"Can't you go do that any other time?" he grimaced begrudgingly.

"Unless you don't want your birthday present."

"Birthday present?"

"Mm-hmm," she cupped his face with a coy smile, "I was thinking a new hat."

She leaned in close to kiss him goodbye, but she was forced to push away and raced into the building, spitting out a curse, when the second bell rang. He watched until the fifteen-year-old completely disappeared into the school, sighing as he bent down to pick up the rake from the ground. He was about to continue his work until he discovered the remnants of his sun hat, broken and trampled into the dirt by their very own feet.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psychologically, paedophilia is not an illness or a sickness; it is a _psychosexual condition_. However, it should be noted that not all paedophiles are criminals. There are many individuals whom have _never_ acted upon their urges, because they are aware that they are physically/emotionally/psychologically harmful. Some paedophiles have achieved ways to create a more socially acceptable life by being celibate, or medicated/castrated (to subdue the sex drive to a more controllable state), or marrying women whom are younger and/or have child-like qualities. We designed Loretta to be latter. Already twenty-five years younger than Freddy, even at the (present-day) age of nineteen or twenty, she meant to have an angel-faced, childish, immature, (pre)pubescent quality about her, both physically and behaviourally. To emphasize this, we chose the irony of the "Catholic schoolgirl," which has become something of a universal fetish and everyman fantasy; Freddy wouldn't be immune to the mystique of the pig-tailed, short-skirted, candy-chewing Catholic uniformed schoolgirl either. It's not just for paedophiles anymore. Also, many paedophiles prefer children close to puberty who are sexually inexperienced, which is how they like it, but sexually curious, thus making them easier to target. Loretta is in that confusing cusp where she's not really a girl anymore but not quite a woman either. Nevertheless, we wanted to show that Loretta was not the epitome of innocence and virginity, even before meeting Freddy, and never was. We purposely left it open-ended and ambiguous: Did she herself initiate the relationship first, or did Freddy? Is Loretta "a good girl who plays bad," or is she "a bad girl who plays good"? If she did initiate it, is Freddy to blame for the relationship simply because he is an adult and she is a minor? Would he be considered a sex offender? Would she be considered a victim? Or is it the reverse? (Truthfully, there is only _one_ answer: It is _his_ fault — and he would not deny it, nor would he apologize for it, and that is where the monstrosity of it lies!)
> 
> The origin story "The Life and Death of Freddy Krueger" was featured in the novelizations of the first three films (and was reprinted in the _NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET COMPANION_ ), detailing Freddy's childhood and early crimes. Marvel Comics actually used this story and expanded upon it. In it, Freddy was described to have no formal schooling, however _FREDDY'S DEAD_ showed him in elementary school while _FREDDY'S NIGHTMARE_ episode "It's My Party" referenced that he, at least, made it to high school. Despite the subsequent films of _DREAM WARRIORS, DREAM CHILD, FREDDY'S DEAD_ , and _FREDDY'S NIGHTMARES_ completely re-writing the character's origins, "Life and Death" is technically no longer considered canon, but it still remains fervently popular among fans.
> 
> St. Dymphna is the protector of victims of childhood molestation, incest, rape, and child abuse, as well as victims of mental illnesses, psychological disorders, emotional torment, and insanity. Later, you will learn that St. Dymphna Catholic School was formerly known, forty-five years earlier, as St. Dymphna Asylum, based on Westin Hills-Fairview Hospital (or Hathaway House "Our Lady of Sorrows") depicted in _DREAM WARRIORS_ and, briefly, _DREAM CHILD_. The infamous East Wing of St. Dymphna's, which will be described in greater detail in further chapters, is a conglomerate of the "dungeon" tower of Hathaway House (which was a wing of the original Westin Hills building) where the hundred maniacs were housed in _DREAM CHILD_ , the abandoned tower of Westin Hills (where Phillip died and later the ghost of Sister Mary Helena was seen) in _DREAM WARRIORS_ , and the run-down, condemned church (from one of Quentin's nightmare sequences) that was deleted from the final cut of the 2010 remake, as seen in the behind-the-scene featurettes. St. Fiacre is the patron of farmers, florists, and gardeners.


	3. Déjà Vu

"You, me, alone," grinned Freddy sinfully, laying out his easy charm unmitigatedly thick, like marmalade, while he curled his tongue under her ear. "Spread eagle between the Babies Alive and the Barbie Dream Houses. Faces lit. Bodies entwined. Our screams echoing across the halls. Whattaya say?"

"Tempting," Loretta forced back a moan, attempting to pull away before she did something she would really regret. "But the answer's no."

"Loooorretta," her name was drawn from his lips in a slow, low murmur, as his hand slithered under her dress and teased at her skin, watching her squirm and shiver with a throaty chuckle. "Do you really mean no? Cause you know what? I can hear," his fingers cupped between her legs and curled, causing her to cry out, "and I can tell that you really wanna say yes."

"I said no and I meant no!" and she slapped his hand away, _hard_ , which caused him yelp and rub his injured hand. She winced at the sound of his pain and looked up at him with a pair of sad, puppyish eyes. "I—I'm sorry, sweetie, but you didn't leave me much of a choice. It's just that I don't want to risk anything. Either of our jobs, or the baby."

Freddy grimaced at her and emitted an irritable growl just behind his throat, as he stood up, pushing his hands in his pockets, in defeat: "Looks like I'll have to go one-handed for the next seven months, huh?"

She couldn't help but scoff. As if her condition was _her_ fault! "You brought it on yourself, Frederick Charles Krueger," she waved an admonishing finger at him, like she would with one of her students. "When it comes to sex, you tend to get... Well, uh..."

He offered with a lopsided smile and a shrug. "Overenthusiastic?"

"I'd go for _dominant_ , but alright."

He couldn't help but raise a thick eyebrow and secret smile at that.

Sex wasn't a normally _gentle_ with them. Loretta had a small, delicate frame, more girly than womanly, and Freddy had an affinity for rough sex. His ego demanded it. She often had to wear high collars to hide the various hickeys and teeth prints, or long sleeves to cover the burn marks on her wrists whenever he tied her up, and her hips and legs were regularly imprinted with bruises. But there was something she always did find odd about him.

Although he enjoyed the habitual hand and blowjob, he, unlike other men, hated her on top. He preferred being the controller rather than the controlee. When she did attempt to ride him, his mood would suddenly deflate and he'd shove her off him in objection, only to have him push her down and pounce himself on top of her. Loretta could beg and plead, but she had to ask his permission first and foremost; even then, it was rare if he allowed it at all.

As they left the building and locked the door behind them, a streak of white over Freddy's shoulder suddenly caught her eye.

"Oh, afternoon, Sister," greeted Loretta.

He froze and paled when turned and saw Sister Mary Helena, clothed in her all-white habit with large cross dangling on a black cord around her neck, warmth radiating from her smile. A pair of blue, soothing eyes revealed a certain youthful beauty that hid beneath the cruel, aging lines upon her face.

That was another thing Loretta found odd. Freddy was not a religious man by any means — he considered himself a sinner of the first degree — and never acted pious around any other member of the clergy he came into contact with, except for Sister Mary Helena. There was just something about the woman that spooked him and she never fully understood why.

"H—hullo, Sister," Krueger muttered, removing his hat and crossing himself.

"Afternoon, Frederick," greeted the nun, patting Freddy kindly on the shoulder. "You look well."

"I—I've got some... stuff... errands to run before I—uh, we go home, honey," he said, talking rapidly, running his words together, as he tugged on his faded, black trenchcoat and perched his grimy fedora over his eyes. "Gotta get to the hardware store before it closes and get some take-out for lunch—I mean, dinner! I'll be in the car," with that he bolted out of the conversation towards the parked vehicle, as though his life depended on it.

"Has Frederick always been so jumpy?" inquired the holy woman.

"I'd like to apologize, Sister," Loretta replied with a sympathetic smile. "He's often told me that he feels very uncomfortable around you."

"Oh?" the nun's voice elevated slightly in surprise. "Why is that?"

"Not exactly sure why. I think he said that there's just something about you, something in your face, like he knows you from somewhere, but he can't seem to place it."

"I... knew his mother."

"Freddy never talks about his family, particularly his foster family. He did once mention something about a nickname he was called as a kid. What was it...? Son of—," the schoolteacher tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Son of a hundred or thousand something or another? Whenever I ask him about it, he goes quiet. Anyway, what brings you here?"

"Well, I had recently heard that you and your husband are expecting," Mary Helena's soft hands tenderly cupped her face. "But I can see that already. Loretta, my child, you're positively glowing."

"Word travels fast in Springwood," she smiled with a blush in her cheeks, resting her hands upon her belly. "We only found out a few days ago ourselves."

"Almighty and most merciful God in Heaven, in His infinite goodness and wisdom, has blessed with a new child. There's no greater moment when a parent learns of the gift the Lord has given them. I know you and Frederick will cherish this child, watch over it, and provide for all its wants of body and soul, just as you have for each other. I am happy for the both of you."

The nun's tone suddenly became serious and continued: "However, I know that pregnancy may be difficult and frightening at times, but it is a spiritual experience that will test you to your limits, like no other. It is the ultimate journey of transformation and discovery. Push aside your inadequacies, fears, and self-doubts. Take the opportunity to prepare your mind, body, and spirit for this new life."

"Thank you, Sister, for the advice," interjected Loretta. "I will take them to heart."

"I would like to be there for you and Frederick. And, if you are interested, I myself am a midwife, and can offer guidance and perspective."

"Thank you for your offer, Sister. I will consider it when I get farther along."

"That's all I asked," the nun nodded in understanding with a smile. "And what of your classes?"

"Good. I graduate this winter, but I'll be the size of a whale by the time I wear my cap and gown."

Sister Mary Helena chuckled. "You'll look beautiful. I should take my leave from you now. And tell Frederick that his mother says hello."

Krueger watched his wife and the nun part ways from afar, safe in the sanctity of his truck, and tapped his nails impatiently along the steering wheel. He felt like an idiot for allowing some stupid church-broad get under his skin. He had a strong urge to rip the seats underneath him and chuck them at her. There was something about her, something about her eyes, like looking into a mirror, that unnerved him. He needed to calm the fuck down.

He scrabbled at the hatch to the glove compartment of his truck, pulling out a flask. He unscrewed the cap and took a lengthy swig of whiskey, feeling the alcohol burn his stomach, warm his cheeks, and slowly milk into his bloodstream. 

What was it about that nun that bothered him so? Why did she seem so familiar? He'd only met her four years ago and yet he avoided her every chance he got. For some reason, after every encounter with her, he was suddenly struck with the childhood memory of being taunted:

_ON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS! SON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS! SON OF A—! ___


__"Freddy?"_ _

__The gardener choked in surprise, hastily hid the flask in his coat when he saw Loretta. He gasped and hacked, as the whiskey went down the wrong tube and snorted into his sinuses._ _

__"Were you drinking?"_ _

__"Ack—nuh—hack—no, honey...," Freddy coughed. "I'm fine."_ _

__"Are you sure you're okay? Because—"_ _

__"Goddammit, you stupid fuckin' bitch, didn't you understand a fuckin' word I said?! Why the hell won't you trust me when I say I'm all right?!" snarled Freddy, his voice bitter, slamming his fist against the horn. Suddenly, he caught the look his wife's hurt, angry stare fixed upon him and quickly understood he'd lost his temper again. It was one of the major issues of their marriage. "I—I'm sorry, Loretta," staring down at his hands in guilt. "I didn't mean to... to snap at you, like that."_ _

__Something told him that he'd be sleeping on the couch tonight._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sister Mary Helena (Amanda Krueger), of _DREAM WARRIORS, DREAM CHILD_ , and _DREAM MASTER_ , makes her first appearance in this chapter and will return in following ones. The original line was originally "between the Tickle Me Elmo and the Barbie Dream House," but we had to change it because that toy didn't appear until 1997 and this would be 1991. I changed Elmo to Popples — a fat, colourful marsupial-like plush with round cheeks, heart-shaped ears, and pom-pom tails that you could stuff into a pouch on its back, like a giant furball, and then pop the animal back out — was a toy craze near the late-1980s, which later spawned a cartoon series; I remember the toy had a lot of innuendos when I was young, particularly noticeable when you hear the commercial and the theme song for the cartoon. However, Popples, I feel, are a very obscure reference because it is a toy of its time. Barbie Dream House, on the other hand, is immortalized through many generations, so I needed a toy that did the same: Enter Baby Alive, elbowing the several different kinds of innuendo.


	4. A Night at the Bar

For the rest of the night, Loretta didn't say a word to Freddy. She'd merely set his pillow and several blankets outside the closed door to the bedroom they shared. Freddy knew better than to protest. If the silent treatment would last for more than one night (and it had in the past), Freddy would sleep on the floor opposite the bedroom door, waiting for Loretta to let him in again. When it came to that point, Freddy couldn't help but feel like a dog that had been kicked but still craved its master's attention. Loretta would silently make him beg — and, god, he hated it!

Of course, he could make her beg and plead for hours whenever he felt like it, too...

Sighing, Freddy scooped up the makeshift bedding his wife had left him with a frown and wandered downstairs to the living room sofa. He set the items down and reached for the half-empty bottle of bourbon, muttering to himself between each swig:

"And so... the Couch of Banishment — a vile contraption that the wives of Springwood use to force their husbands into a guilt trip. The judge sentences one Frederick Charles Krueger to a night of tossing and turning, falling off at least twice, and a punishment of a stiff neck and a sore shoulder for the following day. Krueger has one final drink before facing his sentence before turning to the Couch to say, 'Damn you to hell.'"

As tired as he was, Freddy rolled over and over restlessly upon the overstuffed cushions of the sofa, unable to find a comfortable spot, and ended up counting the plaster stalagmites upon the ceiling in boredom. The air in the house felt stifling. He stood up, grabbed his fedora and keys, and walked to his pickup truck, with KRUEGER LANDSCAPING AND MAINTENANCE scrawled upon its side, hearing the low rumble of thunder in the distance, as he smashed his finished bottle onto the sidewalk. The outside air smelt crisper with the scent of a storm nearby. Uncertain where to go at this time of night, he put the keys in the ignition and backed out of the driveway.

One of the benefits of rain: It made a gardener's life easier.

Ten minutes later, Freddy pulled to a stop and found himself outside the local bar of Jason's. A mismatch of cars littered across the tiny parking lot and each one he recognized. He was met with cheers and raised glasses from the patrons when he entered through the double doors. With a smile, he grabbed his hat and waved it in the air in greetings, as they cheerfully shook his hand and vigourously slapped him on the back.

Springwood was a small town. Everyone knew who he was.

"Way to go, Fred!" said Police Lt. Holbrook, raising his shot glass to the gardener with a wink, as he moved over a seat and slapped the top of the barstool between himself and his companion. "My wife Gwen finally told me the news," he continued. "Congratulations, buddy."

One of his thick eyebrows arched and disappeared under his hairline in confusion at the policeman. "News?" asked Freddy when he climbed onto the vacant seat. "Whattaya talkin' about?"

"That you knocked up Loretta, idiot."

"Oh, that," said Freddy with a lopsided smile, as he inflated his chest and fanned his peacock feathers proudly. "Yeah, guess I did."

With a ridiculous chuckle, Holbrook snapped his fingers at the burly barkeep behind the table, whose interest was transfixed on the television set, and pointed to his glass. "Hey, give the daddy-to-be one of these and make that two. It's on me."

Although his drinking was excessive, interfering with his work at times, Donald Holbrook was a good cop and a good man. With his steely, narrowed eyes, rugged face, muscular physique, and everyman ethnicity that made him think of sheriffs of the Old West, one could call him a man's man — an all-around tough guy — and that was certainly the image that he made for himself. Cradling his scotch and soda, Alan Smith, his best friend since childhood, was the humanities teacher at Springwood High — the kind of teacher students dreaded to have — who was already on his way to principal's chair and, someday, the school board. They practically did everything together, as inseparable as twin brothers: They both went to the same schools, met their respective wives in elementary, married in college, and even lived on neighbouring streets, with children the same age.

Personality-wise, however, they were as different as night and day. Holbrook had the bearing of a soldier; he was roughhew and vulgar, but genuine and personable, who doted upon his daughter, yielding to whatever her little heart could possibly desire, which usually consisted of construction paper and crayons. Smith had the bearing of a scholar; he was reserved and polite, but remote and robotic, who deigned his son, although a child of five, had already shown that he couldn't, would possibly never, live up to the expectations his father had created for him.

"What the hell is this shit?" cringed the gardener, watching the barkeep mix various liquors in adjoining shot glasses and slide the alcoholic concoctions before the two men. He stared at the brown liquid with a dubious frown, sniffing it cautiously. "Essence of road kill?"

"It's good for you, Krueger," replied Lt. Holbrook, while he drained half his glass and seethed a satisfying hiss between his clenched teeth. "It'll grow hair on your balls."

Glancing at Smith, who could only present him a reassuring shrug, Freddy took a puff of air, shut his eyes, putting on his best brave face, and gulped the drink down quickly, which made his throat scorched and his stomach wrench, barely managing to strangulate a noise somewhere between a dry cough and a spitting fire.

"Good shit, huh?" grinned the policeman, as the gardener could only nod weakly in response, before he hollered for the attention of the barkeep from the television. "Hit him again."

"You sure you don't want any, eh?" added the burly barkeeper questioningly at the schoolteacher, as he mixed a line of shots. "I make the best Cowboy Killers in the town."

"It's a school night," the schoolteacher replied, sipping his watered-down drink, while he shook his head as companions down their respective glasses. "I got a pop quiz tomorrow and I can't wait to hear the groans."

The bartender chuckled at the comment, but he was at half-attention because the man suddenly hollered at the inanimate television, causing everyone in bar to turn to him half-surprise: "Oh, c'mon! Score, you bunch of beavers!"

Freddy let out a dirty giggle into his drink. "Heeheehee... He said _beavers_..."

"Looks like Tiny here can't hold his liquour, eh?"

"Fuck. You. Bitch," the gardener's lips sneered between his hiccups. After a few swigs of whiskey and a shot of whatever this was, Fred Krueger was already feeling drunk. Admittedly, out of the four men, he was the lightweight of the group and he _loathed_ to be reminded of it. "How about changin' the channel to somethin' other than figure skating, Princess?"

"And miss the playoffs?"

"Goddamnit, Jason!" came Holbrook in frustration, throwing his hands in the air, appearing as though he needed a good argument. "There're fifteen other people in this bar, two hundred channels on that box, and all you do is put on hockey!"

"My bar, my rules," gloated the barkeep, crossing his stocky arms assertively in front of his massive, barrel chest.

"Whatever happened to 'the customer is always right' thing?"

"We don't have that rule in Canada."

"We're not in Canada. This is America you're standing on, friend, and the American game is football and baseball, so how about changing the goddamn channel?"

"Or what?" snorted the larger man ridiculously, as a grin curled the handlebars of his goatee. "You'll arrest me, eh?"

Holbrook gave him a wry smile, as he placed the rim of another glass to his lips: "I could make sure your place doesn't pass inspection next time."

The barkeeper grimaced at the policeman, tossing the remote control upon the table in grudging defeat before stalking off, which Krueger yanked away promptly with a childish cackle. He needed to clean something, badly. 

"So, what are you doing here in the middle of the night, Fred?" questioned Holbrook, as he chugged yet another shot. "Shouldn't you be home with your wife?"

"Said something I shouldn't. Lore banished me to the couch and givin' me the silent treatment," the gardener gave a shudder and scowl, as he rapidly mashed the buttons of the remote and stopped at a game of Little League Baseball.

"I know the feeling," the officer nodded in sympathy. "Had a huge fight with Gwen. Dragged Alan here with the full intention of getting plastered out of my mind before I crash my ass out on the living room couch."

"So, what did you do exactly?" injected Smith curiously.

Narrowing his eyes at his friend, Holbrook gave a resentful huff: "Why do you immediately think it's my fault, Alan? I didn't do shit!"

"Calm down, Donny," replied Smith, his hands up defensively. "You know I didn't mean it that way."

"Don't wanna talk about it, okay?"

"Why?" Freddy prodded teasingly. "Gwen bein' all frigid on ya?"

Holbrook downed another shot, sucking a cold chill of air between his clenched teeth, before he murmured: "Gwen's been cheating on me."

The schoolteacher and gardener glanced at each other for a silent moment. The conversation seemed to have stopped dead with his words that they could hear a pin drop between them. Turning their attention back at their mournful friend, it was Alan Smith that spoke first:

"Are you sure about this, Donny?" His words were deliberate and cautious. "Maybe you're just imagining things..."

"Yeah, I'm sure," lamented Holbrook, pinching the bridge of his nose in pain. "All the signs were there and, now, I can't ignore them anymore. I'm just worried about Nancy. My parents divorced when I was a boy. I knew what a divorce was before a marriage. She's too young to understand these things." He shook his head and stared into his muddy drink, talking more to himself than his companions, as he rambled on, "If I ever find that son of a bitch she's screwin' with, I'll—I'll..." His fists balled angrily and the glass shattered in his hand. " _Shhhhhit!_ "

Alan Smith practically leapt out of his stool and to Holbrook's side who held his hand and spat his curses.

"I think we better get you home and have Gwen look at that," urged the schoolteacher, carefully picking the larger shards of glass out and wrapping the injury with a napkin, as the policeman clung on his shoulder for support. "C'mon, Krueger, I'll take you home, too."

"Naaaahh, I'm—," grumbled the gardener after a low, satisfied belch, as he nearly toppled off his barstool, slapping the two men on the back and missed with a grin. "I'm fine. Nothin' to worry 'bout."

While Alan fussed with his umbrella, Freddy Krueger straightened his fedora, swaying uneasily on his two feet from the combined high of alcohol and adrenaline, miraculously managing to stumble out into the parking lot without falling, and clambered inside his truck.

It was raining now.

But despite the drumming of the raindrops and the rumbling of thunder, he could hear angelic choir of monks and nuns from St. Dymphna's drift from across the street:

_SALVE, REGINA, MATER MISERICORDIÆ_ 


He knew this one well enough. It was heard during the Liturgy of the Hour of Compline, the final prayer service of the day. He and Loretta would often have their nightly visits in the abandoned East Wing, due to a fire however many decades ago, and hear it reverberate across the altar married with their screams.

Of course, that was years ago.

_VITA, DULCEDO, ET SPES NOSTRA, SALVE_ 


His eyes squinted through the waterfall cascading down the windshield to see the massive doors of the church open wide by a nun dressed in white. He groaned when he recognized her. It was that fuckin' Christ bitch again: Sister Mary Helena.

The woman followed him. He was sure of it. Wherever he was, she was there. Watching him. Leering at him. He suddenly felt sick. He had to get out of here. He had to get home. He didn't want to take the chance of her seeing him.  


_AD TE CLAMAMUS, EXSULES FILII HEVÆ_ 


The gardener turned on the ignition, struggling with the gearshift, and slammed his foot against the gas pedal. He heard the engine snarl before him, the wheels screech beneath him, and the puddles spray around him. As long as the damnable woman was as far away as possible, whatever direction he was going, it didn't matter, nor did he care. He quickly gave the steering wheel a sharp turn when the stoplight in front of him changed.  


_AD TE SUSPIRAMUS, GEMENTES ET FLENTES_ 


He could feel everything spinning out of control. Literally.

"Motherfucker!"  


_IN HAC LACRIMARUM VALLE_ 


"Alan, call 911!" Lt. Holbrook ordered, as he staggered up to wrecked remains of the gardener's truck. The left fender was lodged into a large oak tree with its door, or what was left of a door, crushed inwards, nothing more than an unmoving mass of twisted metal, as a blood-streaked arm dangled out the broken window. "Fred? Fred?!"

"Goddamnit, Donny," the gardener managed to cough weakly after retching over himself, "stop screamin' at me..."  


_EIA, ERGO, ADVOCATA NOSTRA_ 


"Easy, friend," soothed the policeman, pulling out a penlight from his pocket and shined it at him. He had cuts and bruises, but his right leg was positioned at an unnatural angle, wedged against the driver's side dashboard. He could see a shard of bone protruding from through skin and fabric below his knee. "The ambulance is on the way. Just hang on there."  


_ILLOS TUOS MISERICORDES OCULOS AD NOS CONVERTE_ 


"I need to get home..." Clenching his teeth in pain, the gardener began to struggle against his chair and call out: "Loooorretta! I _need_ you!"

"She's on her way," comforted the policeman, gently easing his friend back in his seat with his injured hand. "Where's that damn ambulance?!"  


_ET IESUM, BENEDICTUM FRUCTUM VENTRIS TUI_ 


Gazing through the fractured window of his truck, he watched the small congregation file out of the church and tear through the falling rain towards him. Among them was _her_...

The realization hit him.  


_NOBIS, POST HOC EXSILIUM OSTENDE_ 


Why hadn't he seen it before? Why hadn't he put two and two together? That _feeling_ he got whenever he saw her. All the clues that seemed so small and insignificant stood right before him. It all made sense now, a hopeless kind of sense, which somehow _terrified_ him.  


_O CLEMENS, O PIA, O DULCIS VIRGO MARIA_ 


The rain fell heavier, echoing off the hollow roof of the truck, like a metal coffin. He could hear the faint wail of sirens and the flicker of lights in the distance.

He fell back into the headrest of his chair with a painful rasp of air. He was exhausted. He was too weak to lift the weight of his skull. The adrenaline that coursed through his veins was falling and falling fast. His mind reeled in uncertainty. His face went slack and his body fell limp. He began to doubt where he was or who he was with. 

The world was spinning out of control and the only thing he could see was darkness, as a childhood taunt, one that he had not heard in a long time, rang in his ears with a deafening kind of dread:

__

_SON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS! SON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS! SON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS!_




**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After six (technically, _eight_ ) months of endless writing and re-writing and re-re-re-writing, I'm happy to say, after much patience and perseverance, that it's finally done! Thus far, this chapter remains the most difficult and most nightmarish written piece of the series, although the exact reasons of why this was were mostly technical. We sweated blood for this chapter like no other! We would like to thank our readers for their patience and their support, and we sincerely hope that the following chapters will not take nearly this long.
> 
> The reasoning behind Freddy's injured leg and subsequent limp originated from the B-roll footage of the 2010 remake to explain one of the character's (lesser known) idiosyncrasies. These B-rolls, referred to as the alternate or supplemental material filmed during the production that is used primarily for behind-the-scenes featurettes and other promotional use, were seen _exclusively_ on DreadCentral.com a few months shy of the film's theatrical release. Jackie Earle Haley's Freddy Krueger does, in fact, have a very characteristic limp, which is apparent during Kris' nightmare sequences in the classroom and the garden (on B-rolls #7 and #11), but it becomes subtler as the film continues, such as Nancy's nightmare sequence in the Boiler Room (on B-roll #4). There's no evidence to verify whether the character acquired this injury before or after his so-called "death." However, it was surprising to us that this distinctive "shuffle" was _practically_ removed from the final cut. (Robert Englund, on the other hand, used a James Cagney-inspired sideways gait for his Freddy.)
> 
> "Salve Regina" is one of four seasonal Marian antiphons traditionally said or sung in honour of the Virgin Mary between Trinity Sunday (May to June) and Advent Sunday (November to December) on the liturgical calendar of the Roman Catholic Church. These hymns are primarily recited at the end of Compline, the final prayer service of the Liturgy of the Hours (which is between the hour of nine and ten o'clock). The song "Salve Regina" was chosen due to its literal and symbolic meanings concerning Freddy's background that have been hinted at and will eventually be expanded upon in later chapters:
> 
> _Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiæ_ (Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy)  
>  _vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve_ (Our life, our sweetness, and our hope, hail)  
>  _ad te clamamus, exsules filii Hevæ_ (To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve)  
>  _ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes_ (To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping)  
>  _in hac lacrimarum valle_ (in this vale of tears)  
>  _Eia, ergo, Advocata nostra_ (Turn, then, our most gracious Advocate)  
>  _illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte_ (Thine eyes of mercy toward us)  
>  _et Iesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui_ (And, Jesus, the blessed fruit of thy womb)  
>  _nobis, post hoc exsilium ostende_ (Show him unto us after our exile)  
>  _O clemen, o pia, o dulcis Virgo Maria_ (O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary)

> 
> Strangely, the character of Nancy's father never made an appearance in the 2010 remake, although he was mentioned in the early script (only credited as "Nancy's Father"). As much as we love John Saxon's Police Lt. Donald "Don" Thompson in the original Englund series, we felt it best to "reboot" the role for Lt. Donald "Donny" Holbrook as a "new" character in the same way Nancy Holbrook was a "new" character. We used actor Robert Davi who could encompass all the aspects of a worldly ex-soldier, steadfast lawman, troubled alcoholic, tortured husband, devoted father, best friend, and suburban martyr. Both Davi and Jackie Earle Haley starred together in the hysterically awful film, _MANIAC COP III: BADGE OF SILENCE_ (1993). Also, the owner of "Jason's" is based on actor-and-stuntman Kane Hodder, best known for playing the horror icon Jason Voorhees in _FRIDAY THE 13TH VII_ through _X_ , although a different actor played the character in Freddy vs. Jason (2003). Hodder did star opposite of Robert Englund in the FEARnet web-series, _FEAR CLINIC_ (2009), which Abri and I both love and adore. (I had the great honour to meet Mr. Hodder last year at Texas Frightmare Weekend 2010 who is, truly, the gentlest of giants.) When asked why he wasn't cast in Freddy vs. Jason, Hodder replied, "I guess they wanted Jason to look like a skinny little bitch this time." (Hahahaha!) Hope you enjoyed our little hat-tips.


	5. Son of a Hundred Maniacs

Thirty-eight years ago.

"Meeowwr?"

Dressed in a tight pair of shabby overalls and striped shirt two sizes too large, his hair unkempt and in desperate need of a cut, a six-year-old boy sat on his knees in the playground sandbox at the Cincinnati Orphanage. His striking blue eyes studied a grey, scruffy-looking tabby cat that tip-toed towards him, as he held out an orange cheese puff to it. With a cautious sniff and a curious swing of its tail, the feline gawked at the boy for a moment with a pair of bronze eyes, licking its uneven whiskers eagerly, before it began craned its neck on nibble on the tip of the flavoured chip held between the boy's chubby fingers. The child gave it a second and third piece, which the cat greedily munched, as he stroked its furry back, watching the creature with quiet fascination — too quiet, in fact — before he gave a rough tug upon its tail.

"Mrrawwwrrrrl!"

Startled, the cat whipped its head around and gave an irritated hiss, but the child tightened his grip on the flea-ridden tail and stood up, lifting half of the filthy beast in the air when it attempted to flee. It struggled from side to side, attacking his old sneakers, before he brought his foot upward and struck its furry head with a deafening crack, causing it to fall unconscious upon the ground.

Dragging the limp, little ragdoll of a cat into the sandbox, he dumped it into a generous hole he dug in the corner, the six-year-old barely registered the little pink tongue that jutted out between a pair of broken fangs and the ruptured eye that bled down its striped cheek. The boy pulled out a pair of shoestrings from his large overall pockets then began to bind the wrists and followed suit with the ankles. Just as he finished tightening the final knot, the animal came to and started to struggle while the boy pulled out a box cutter from his overall pocket. With his plump thumb, he slid the sharp blade out and it locked in place with a click.

"Murr...arrrr..."

With a delighted glint in his blue eyes and a smirk crawling across his lips, the child began to slit the yowling animal's open with the imperfection of a clumsy surgeon. He started with the sides first — slice, slice — to prevent the blood from gushing on him when he went for the chest and stomach — slice, slice, slice.

"Muuur-ah-ah-ah-ahhh-ahhhhh-wwwllllll!"

As the sandy pit slowly began to fill and puddle with crimson, the boy's hand explored inside the flesh. Warm and wet and wonderful. He encircled around something slippery and pulled out a twist of pink intestines, which were as thin and fragile as noodles. They stretched and snapped between his fingers and out poured a wiggling swarm of roundworms and unprocessed faeces, but the boy simply beamed at the sight and the smell, that awful smell, encouraged him to continue. He picked up a worm and squished it between his fingers, hearing its fleshy body give out with an audible pop.

The injured tabby strangled out its last few heavy, laboured breaths and the six-year-old paused from his work: It had stopped moving, breathing, and (above all) screaming. Frowning, the child gave a dissatisfying grunt. That was his favourite part. They were no fun when they died and he was just beginning to really enjoy himself. Stupid creature. It didn't last nearly as long as the last one. 

Kicking several inches of sand over the corpse, he skipped his way to the drinking fountain, reaching for it on his tip-toes, and began to clean up. Drying his hands on his overalls, he hid the box cutter back into his pocket. He looked up when the morning bell at the orphanage rang and he frowned. He had forgotten the time and he had forgotten the day.

Kicking a rock with a grunt of frustration and hanging his head, he didn't know whether to cry or to scream. He stood there in the playground, mulling over what he could possibly do, whether he should run away, or whether he should brave through yet another day. When the second bell rang, he shut his eyes with a mournful groan, or was it a growl, as he made his way into the building and disappeared within the crowd of children, young and old, small and large, who were rushing through the hallways and ducking into their respected rooms.

He was going to stay...

\---

As long as he could remember, Frederick Charles Krueger was not like the other children. He knew it and everyone else knew it, too. They never asked what was wrong with him, nor did they seem interested in understanding why, but he was somehow singled out from the hundreds of other orphaned children as the screw-up, the black sheep, the weirdo, the freak, and he so longed to be like everyone else. But there was a problem with being like everyone else because, no matter how hard he tried, he was always the odd one out — the last one picked at everything, or the one that was never picked at all. He tried his best to appear indifferent, that it didn't bother him, but the other children didn't have the same sentiments.

He had no friends. He had no acquaintances. He had no allies, even among the facilitators and the teachers, for they were too understaffed to give any of the children any proper attention. He was often alone and he preferred it that way. He stopped interacting all together. While the other children cavorted with one another with their games of house, tag, and hide n' seek, he was content in sitting alone in a quiet corner of the playroom with his crayons. If, by chance, someone came too close, he learned that a furrowing of his brow usually kept them away — and that was the face he had to put on every day.

Bombarding the teacher with excuses, not that she cared to hear them, he was allowed to skip recess and squirreled himself away in the schoolroom. To put it simply, he did not want to be on the playground at all when there was a sea of children already there. Even under the "watchful" gaze of the adults, they were blind to the comings and goings of the orphanage. Few knew them as well as Frederick Charles Krueger.

From the hallway, his heart skipped a beat at the sound of all-too-familiar voices hushing each other from behind the classroom door. Scooping up his small pile of papers and his box of crayons into his scrawny arms, he crouched underneath the table, pulling his knees to his chest in a desperate effort to stop them from trembling, and held his breath when he heard the door creak open. He could hear the loud thumping of his heart, fearing the sound would give him away, as he watch the long, stretching shadows dance upon the flooring and squeezed his eyes shut. For a long moment, there was silence, but he abruptly let out a shrilling yelp when something grabbed his ankle and he was dragged away of his hiding place.

"Hey, here's the retard!" said one of the monstrous shadows. There were three of them, each one progressively meaner than the next. "Thought ya could hide, huh?"

"Heard ya skinn'd another flea-bagger," mocked another shadow. "Probably sucks its blood like some kind of a psycho!"

The third shadow sneered, watching his prey struggle against his grip, kicking and clawing only to miss every time: "Bet his entire family were a bunch of psychos and maniacs, too!"

"Son of a hundred maniacs! Son of a hundred maniacs! Son of a hundred maniacs!" guffawed one of the shadows, pointing and prodding the boy like a piece of hanging meat, as he struggled to free himself.

"How 'bout we check 'im with an exam, boys, and see how a psycho works? Get ya pants down, ya goddamn queer, and we'll cut it off an— _errrrrggghh, mudderfucker!_ "

Whipping his tiny body around, Frederick forcibly latched on to the shadow's arm, dug his tiny teeth into his knuckles, tore through the skin, and he could taste the rush of garnets across his lips. Warm and wet and wonderful.

"I won't let you!" screamed the boy in a high and panicky tone, spitting of blood from his teeth and trickling of tears from his eyes, as he pulled the box cutter from his pocket and lunged at his attacker who fell to his knees on the floor — slice, slice. He grounded and grinded its short blade into the layers of fabric and flesh — slice, slice, slice — and cried out unrelentingly: "I won't let you cut it off! I won't! I won't! _I won't!_ "

The shadow wrenched and caught a fraction of breath before exploding a long, deafening scream, a scream that bounced along the four walls of the classroom and echoed all around them in a hundred voices, a scream that sprayed out a volcano of crimson that splattered across the linoleum flooring, a scream that could shatter glass, a scream of pain and anguish, raw and unimaginable, a scream that could send chills riveting down the spines of all whom heard it — and did so.

\---

Staring aimlessly through long strands of his hair at the ambulance stretcher that rattled and rolled pass him, the six-year-old sat quietly on an enormous bench, stooping his head low in an attempt to hide in full view, several feet outside the main entrance of the orphanage, awaiting his punishment, whatever it might be, as the director gravely prattled on with the paramedics and technicians out of earshot.

"Did we come at a bad time?" interrupted a woman with her husband at arm.

"Are you Mr. and Mrs. Underwood?" the director turned to the couple.

"Yes, we have an appointment for an adoption?" nodded the husband. "But if you're busy with an emergen—."

"Who is that?" asked the wife, peeking behind the director's shoulder and pointing to the small child in dirty overalls and overgrown hair sitting on the bench by his lonesome.

The director frowned when he glanced behind him and began to whisper the situation to the couple. The husband gave the appearance of a mild-mannered, suburban man, but carried an obsessive need to control things around him, such as his headstrong wife, as he thinned his lips, grimacing and shaking his head, while he listened to the laundry list of troubling offences associated with the boy. His wife, however, with her mass of short, golden cotton-candy hair and youthful, girlish appearance listened in half-attention and would shift her sapphire eyes back to the boy sympathetically every few minutes with a twinkle behind them.

When the director finished, the wife tugged at her husband's arm, pleading with him with a pair of sweet, sugary eyes, and they began to argue, starting off as petty begging before it quickly escalated into a screaming match. The director flinched and took a step back when the husband raised the back of his hand, but the wife stood her ground contumaciously and he grated his teeth at her, uncertain if he was impressed by her persistence in the matter, annoyed by it, or downright baffled by it. Berating her one final time with a forewarning finger, as one would with a child, he swung around and grumbled off straight into the director's office.

The wife merely wrinkled her little nose at her husband and gave a smug, little smile when she got her way. Nodding to the director of the orphanage, she straightened herself up and knelt down to eye level of the boy who sat alone on the bench.

"Hello," she greeted in a soft, delicate tone.

The boy didn't speak in a futile attempt to turn invisible in front of the grown-up. He didn't trust grown-ups. Grown-ups never gave him much reason to trust them. They always, _always_ , had a hidden agenda.

"Do you mind if I sit here?"

Again, the boy said nothing. He didn't even move, that is, until:

_SON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS! SON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS! SON OF A HUNDRED MANIACS!_ 


A group of mocking children chanted from down the hall after their return from lunch hour, ducking safely into their classroom, laughing giddily as they did so, and knowing the grown-ups could do nothing to stop them.

The boy's shoulders slumped further, his nails clenched into the textile of his overalls over his knees, and his body began to tremble. He had buried his emotions deep inside him, all the frustration, all the pain; he had built the walls around him and built them well, but the pressure became too much to handle now and, sometimes, that's all it took. The emotional dam cracked and burst forth, exposing himself for the first time — and before a grown-up, no less.

The woman cooed and wrapped her arms around the weeping six-year-old, which caused him to flinch unexpectedly. As she tenderly petted and gently rocked his tiny body into her lap, her palms rubbed his back and squeezed his thigh. On any other day, he would have shoved her off him and ran off to hide, but the sheer onslaught of emotions flooded through every extremity of his person, making it all the more unbearable: He couldn't run if he wanted to. He couldn't hide if he tried. He simply couldn't move. He instinctively buried his little face into the comforting folds of her dress and permitted the tears to stream down his eyes freely.

"It's okay, little one," she whispered sweetly, cradling him close against her. "They won't ever hurt you again."

The child valiantly took in a deep breath, albeit a shaky one, and sniffled: "They'll... _never_ stop..."

The corner of the woman's lips slipped into a smile when the boy opened up enough to speak to her. "So, what's your name, cutie?"

"Fr—Frederick," the boy replied lowly, shamefully gazing down at the splattering of bloodstains and teardrops upon his clothes.

"Hello, Frederick," she brushed his long hair from his face and lifted his chin up, allowing his striking blue eyes, redden by tears, to meet hers, with a magnificent grin, "my name's Bonnie. I'm going to be your new mother."


	6. Dirty Little Secret

He had awakened from a restless sleep at the cool, gentle touch of a hand, not his own, caressing his fevered brow. He could hear the steady beeps of the medical equipment around him and feel the slow drips of the IV tubing underneath his skin. Filling his lungs with air with a heavy amount of effort, the gardener shifted uneasily against the pillow and swallowed thickly a cough. His mouth was parched. His flesh felt hot and clammy. His entire body felt heavy, as if weighed down by boulders. Everything felt numb. His eyes squinted to focus through the drug-fueled haze before him, but couldn't. It was too bright to see. He could, however, make out a silhouetted figure of what appeared to be a woman.

"Looorretta...?" he managed to weakly eke from his dried, cracked lips. The name, that ever-beautiful, ever-familiar name, was spoken so faintly that he wondered if it was even heard.

The same gentle hand reached out and petted his damp hair.

"Shhhhh, you're okay now," said a voice, soft and feminine, warm and comforting. "Everything's going to be fine."

He half-sighed, half-moaned at the touch, its movement were slow, careful, graceful, and affectionate, whilst he scooped the maiden hand into his, squeezing its delicate fingers and brushing its sweetened skin to his lips. "I had...the most _awful_ dream," his voice cracked and scratched with a weakness one could only deem as pitiful.

The voice meekly gasped in surprise that it, too, surprised Freddy. Blinking lightly, his brow tightened in confusion, he opened his eyes and focused upward, squinting, to see the woman standing before him was not his wife: It was Dr. Gwen Holbrook.

For a moment that seemed to stretch on for an eternity, Freddy and Gwen could only stare at one another with wide, frozen eyes, flustered and slack-jawed, unable to speak, unable to breathe. The tense, awkward silence between them shattered when he heard a soft moan drift from across the room, seeing the woman whom was, indeed, his wife shifting sleepily in an uncomfortable hospital chair with a large, open textbook sprawled across her lap.

"Loretta?!" he croaked in a kind of stunned panic and abrupt dread that his wife may have caught him with Gwen, but he had jerked his hand away before she awakened at the sound of her name.

"Freddy!" cried Loretta, throwing her arms around her husband, which caused him to wince in pain, and kissing him longingly. "Are you okay? What happened? How much do you remember—?"

The gardener placed a finger to his wife's lips to quiet her, as his eyes searched around the foreign contents of the hospital room curiously. "I'm fine, I think."

"You think?"

"I admit I don't remember exactly how I ended up here."

It was Dr. Holbrook who interrupted, clearing her throat for a moment's attention and brushing a few strands of her long, reddish-blond hair behind her ear, as she began to fill in the blanks of his memory: "Three days ago, you were in a severe car accident. It was raining heavily, you were drinking, lost control of your vehicle, collided straight into a tree, and had a concussion, which was minor, but your leg, however, is another story entirely."

The gardener listened, blinking blankly as he did so, and flipped over the layers of blankets off him and was taken aback by the large plaster cast that virtually surrounded his entire right leg. "Oh, wow..."

She continued, flipping through the clipboard of papers in her hands: "You fractured your tibia, the shin bone, and tore quite a bit of tendons and cartilage that connected the patella, the knee cap, which pretty much dislodging it. The surgeons were able to snap and re-align everything back, but had to install an artificial knee joint."

"Will I walk?"

"With therapy and determination, yes, but you'll likely have a noticeable limp."

"And how long am I gonna to be here?"

"A few months, perha—."

" _Fuck that!!_ " snarled Krueger in a sudden burst of rage and fury, as he struggled to push himself upon balled fists and sat up on the bed, hissing and wincing, determined to ignore the pain that scorched through his body.

"Freddy, what are you doing?!" his wife pushed his shoulders back against the inclined mattress of the hospital bed forcefully. 

"I can't bum around here, gettin' sponge baths and poppin' painkillers, for the next few months! We can't afford it!"

"I'll take care of it. If you move out of this bed, you could be laid up for even longer."

"Lore, listen to me," his hands held her shoulders and his voice turned grave, "you already work yourself to the point of exhaustion with the preschool and the classes and the baby. I just worry about you. You should be taken care of. Besides, I'm already late on the mortgage payment, again. If I stay here, we might not have a house to go home to."

"Now, you listen to me, mister," she returned to him in a confident, equally indomitable tone, as her finger prodded his chest over the hospital gown. "You need to relax and heal. I'll talk to the other doctors to see if I can get an earlier release date, but that all depends on you. The doctors don't know how strong you are yet, or if you can even stand, or if you have anything else wrong with you, so it's going to take some time to figure all that out. Therefore, you have to promise me that you won't be doing anything stupid, like getting out of this bed when you're not supposed to and end up breaking something else."

The gardener was torn between laughing and cursing, but thought it best to do neither. He, instead, emitted a defeatist's growl under his breath and crossed his arms over his chest to be left here and brood, but the preschool teacher couldn't help but smirk at this reaction. Her palms pressed against his solid muscles of his chest and her tongue licked the tip of his nose teasingly, which caused her husband's grimace to inadvertently crack into a smile:

"So, now you're in the mood?"

"Just attempting to cheer you up. Is it working?"

"Maybe."

As the couple leaned closer to kiss, they caught the sound of an "aww" somewhere between them. Freddy's eyes searched for the origin of the noise and curiously tilted his head to the side, resembling a confused puppy, to discover Little Nancy Holbrook ogling him with a bright, adoring grin on her face, her elbows on the mattress, her chin propped up in her hands, and a twinkling sparkle in her eyes, as if she was watching the prince and the princess about to have kiss their way into their own "happily ever after" at the end of a Disney film.

"Nancy? Whatcha doin' here, pumpkin?" Freddy inquired. He looked up and saw Donny Holbrook, her father, in full uniform, pulling off his sheriff's hat at the doorway. "Donny, what brings you here?"

"Fred, Loretta—," greeted the sheriff with a courteous nod to each of them, but his eyes immediately shot down to the floor, as he twirled the wide brim of his brown hat between his fingers uneasily, at the sight of his wife, "—Gwen."

The gardener had completely forgotten his doctor was still in the room. He kicked himself a bit for taking such little notice of her. It's not that Freddy disliked Gwen. She was simply an unusually quiet woman who had a natural ability, or one could call a _nasty_ habit, of vanishing from one's attention, someone who could "disappear" out of a conversation, despite still being in the room. He couldn't help but consider her a bit of a voyeur because of this, always watching and always observing the people around her, seemingly content to live vicariously through them.

Holding the clipboard close to chest, not unlike a shield, she nodded to her husband and kindly smiled at Loretta and Freddy before slipping out of the room without a word.

The couple exchanged a private look before the gardener repeated the question: "So, what brings you here, Donny?"

"Nancy has been beggin' me to take her to visit you since the day you were admitted," replied Lt. Holbrook, warmly, as he ruffled his daughter's hair and plopped his oversized hat on her head. "Also, with you here and the truck totalled, I've been offerin' Loretta a ride to the college since the buses don't head that direction from here."

Freddy nodded. "Then I owe ya one, Donny."

"Don't mention it. It's the least I can do 'til you heal up."

"C'mon, it's just my leg," said Freddy with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Should be alright and back to normal in a month or so."

"I think it's gonna take more than a month, Fred," continued the policeman. "They had to put screws in your leg. The accident fu—," the sheriff looked down at his daughter, cleared his throat and corrected himself, "—messed you up pretty badly."

Tired of her father stealing all of Mr. Freddy's attention, the five-year-old clambered up onto the hospital bed and sat next to him, as she shoved a piece of folded red construction paper proudly into his hands.

"I made you this, Mr. Freddy!" she announced cheerfully.

"Oooh, what's this?"

"I made it in school. Miss Loretta helped."

Discovering that it was a get-well card, as he unfolded it, the gardener pointed to the drawings inside scrawled in crayon and asked with an amused grin: "So, what's all this here?"

"That's you," she replied, more than happy to explain the little stick figure wearing a hat and striped shirt. "And that's me, Kris, and Quentin," she continued, pointing to three smaller stick figures poking out from behind a tree.

"And what are we doing?" Freddy asked.

"Playing hide n' seek!"

Freddy barked into a hardy laugh. "Well, if you're a good girl, I promise we'll play hide n' seek once I can walk again, okay?"

"I'm _always_ a good girl, Mr. Freddy," giggled the child.

"Then that's not gonna be a big problem, is it?" grinned Freddy in response.

"Wanna see my other drawing, Mr. Freddy?"

"Of course."

The child rummaged through the pockets of her dress beside him, allowing her short, cool skirt to balloon and fall innocently over her legs, which extended comfortably across his lap. Pushing a folded piece of blue construction paper into his hands, her tiny feet, dressed in bobby socks and Mary Janes, bounced betwixt his thighs. His heart leapt into his throat and he swallowed frantically, trying to dislodge it. His pulse hammered and his thoughts raced. His teeth clenched and his muscles strained. He fought for control, but his efforts were futile. All he could do now is sit still and sweat, watching her tiny fingers point to the illustrated figures, chattering away, as he nodded in feigned interest, feeling her bare knees rub and knock guilelessly against each other. He attempted to adjust his weight in a series of awkward movements, diverting the child's attention with tiny questions about her drawing, but the bed was too small to move away anymore than an inch or two.

"Are you feeling okay, Mr. Freddy?" inquired Nancy in concern with a pair of large, puppyish eyes. "You look hurt."

"Juh—Just tired, I guess," he managed to garble just below a whisper, lagging behind his own breath, yanking the thick, woolen blanket higher over his lap to vain attempt to mask his lust. "I really should get some sleep."

"Okay, Mr. Freddy," grinned the child who leapt up, wrapping her arms around his neck, and hugged him tightly. Her small frame pressed against his chest, her legs sprawled over his thigh, and her knee wedged against his erection. "Have a good night."

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. He could smell the bubblegum-scented soap on her skin, feel the warm breeze of her breath waft upon his bare neck, and hear the gentle giggling of her voice. Oh, god, he could taste her! He was suspended on the brink of the abyss.

And, for an instant, barely registered in a moment of time, he _slipped_...

Rolling his eyes back, the gardener drew an arm around her waist in an embrace, keeping her close, as his twitching, glancing fingertips wrapped around the backwards curve of her plump legs and knobby knees that peeked under the entrance of her skirt, coddling at the gentle slope of her rear, caressing the cotton whisper of her panties, as he lowered his head under the broad brim of her father's hat and crushed a pair of course lips hungrily against her bare, blushing neck.

She wriggled and writhed against him, feeling the prickling scruff of his chin, with a loud titter: "You're tickling me, Mr. Freddy!"

"Okay, munchkin, time to go," said Holbrook to this daughter.

Twisting herself free from the gardener's arms in the last throb of the longest ecstasy man or monster had known, the five-year-old rolled off the bed and jumped to her father's strong arms gleefully, straightening the sheriff's hat that perched on her head.

They had noticed nothing...

"Take care of yourself, sweetie," Loretta leaned over the bed to kiss his cheek, but her husband suddenly snatched her thin wrist in attention, wringing it between his course fingers tighter than he should.

"Lore!" Freddy managed to squeak between his urgent huffs and desperate, pleading eyes; "Don't leave me, please..."

"I have to go," insisted she. "I have a huge test tonight. I'll be back after class, I promise."

Krueger could say nothing. How could he? Taking in a deep breath to calm himself, to keep his emotions from breaching, he nodded in defeat. He slammed the back of his head against the pillow once he heard the door click shut and allowed his eyes to roll back into his head, rubbing the wrinkles from his forehead, as he stared absently at the ceiling. He balled his shaking hands into fists to cease the agitated fidgeting and scissoring of his fingers until his nails dug deep crescents into his palms. His teeth gritted and grinded against each other.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something, or someone. He just wanted to tear something apart!

He had thought his marriage long "cured" him from these urges. He had thought they were locked away a lifetime ago, dead and done with, for they had not been acted upon since he and Loretta had met. He had done so well for the last four years, four years of freedom, four years of peace, and he had vowed never to succumb to the urges again, but they had re-surfaced, stronger than he remembered, and they now flooded his very senses. They would not, and could not, be ignored now.

But, at least, he was alone. All alone, in fact...

Fuck it!

Impatiently, the gardener threw off the pile of scrunched up blankets his from his lap, pulled up the hem of his hospital gown, and gripped his fingers around his thickened shaft with a growl and a groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I affectionately referred to this as the "Lolita Chapter," as the scene of Freddy and Little Nancy on the hospital bed is our modest, if all-too-obvious, tribute to Vladimir Nabokov's controversial novel on paedophilia, _LOLITA_. Certain, specific lines were even lifted straight from the book, in fact — and I’ll give you a cookie if you can find which lines! However, if you haven't read it before, we highly recommend it at your own risk.
> 
> We finally began to touch upon Freddy Krueger's personal psychological demons. Paedophiles that marry often fall into a misconception that marriage "cured" them. As mentioned before, psychologically, paedophilia is considered a _psychosexual condition_ ; they are sexually attracted to children, not adults. However, because it is a condition that causes harm to themselves and others, it's thus considered a "disorder," but not an "illness" in a technical sense. When he first met Loretta as a teenager, she "fed" the addiction rather than "cured" it. She may retain some childish qualities; however, eventually, as the story goes on, she'll grow up, transforming from a "girl" into a "woman," and this will affect Freddy deeply and their relationship. Marriage is never a "cure" for paedophilia: It's a band-aid. It's a temporary solution. It becomes one of the factors that ultimately turns him to seek alternate means, or (more correctly) the same means, to satisfy his sexual desires.


	7. Madonna and Child

Refreshed and, above all, _satisfied_ , the gardener relaxed back on the inclined mattress of his hospital bed, his eyes half-lidded, his breathing leisurely and content, and allowed his body to surrender to the gratification, albeit self-gratification, that washed over him. It had been a long, long while. But his peace did not last long, as he jerked awake at the sound of a knock at the door. Quickly tossing two balled up tissues into the wastebasket beside his bed, he covered up with the blankets.

See no evil, think no evil.

"Good evening, Frederick," came a sweetened voice that sent chills down his spine for reasons he couldn't explain: It was that Christ bitch again. It was Sister Mary Helena.

And this time he had _nowhere_ to go, and she knew it!

"Evenin', Sister," the gardener mumbled incoherently, crossing himself on impulse. "What brings you here?"

"You do, Frederick."

His left eyebrow rose with distinct suspicion. His head stooped low, allowing the curtained mess of hair to obscure his narrow stare of his eyes from her line of sight.

"Well, as you can see," his words ran rapidly together in a foolish hope that, if he got the typical hollow pleasantries out of the way, she would leave him be, "I'm alive and well. No problem whatsoever."

The nun smiled in her usual genteel way, but her eyes betrayed the hurt behind his words.

"I can see that, but that's not exactly why I came to see you." The aging holy woman sat along the end of the patient's bed, too close for comfort, and persisted: "I was hoping we could have a talk, a serious one."

Krueger examined her, up and down, though the slender slits of his lids and the drawn curtain of his hairline, recalling the thunderstorm that night of a snow-white habit running through the raindrops towards the crushed remains of his truck, before he responded a second or two later: "About what?"

"About you, of course," retorted she with a tilt of her head, pointing to him matter-of-factly. "Have you ever been curious about who you are, where you came from, or how you came about?"

"Noooo, not really," he lied between a pair of grated teeth at length after a moment of thought, attempting to keep his expression carefully calm and indifferent, as he dug his nails into his palms. He already disliked the direction this conversation was heading, helpless to prevent it, and he didn't want to give her any hint that what he said was anything less than the truth. "Should I be?"

"Merely curious."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons."

He studied her eyes, those striking blue eyes, for a long moment, longer than he possibly realized, and saw his image reflected upon the orbiting pools of her gaze. They were warm, gentle, and wise, but there was something strong hidden behind them, something immovable, something unyielding, something inexplicable. And, in that cosmic joke that was his life, something, that little something, clicked. He had seen those eyes before. He had known them all his life — the same striking colour of somber blue, the same distinctive ringlet along the iris, the same oddened shape, the same swimming intensity, the same watery glint, the same in every possible way. It was like looking straight into a mirror.

"Ya—You have my eyes."

"Correction: _You_ have _my_ eyes."

The gardener didn't know exactly how to react. It all seemed unreal. It was a lot to take in — and he wasn't even sure if he could. He had often dreamt of the moment of meeting his mother, that little child inside him, forever lost and alone, running up to the woman with his arms stretched out and his grin fixated upon his face, consumed with that precious wanting to embrace her, to kiss her, to be accepted by her, to never let go, and to never be forced apart; nevertheless, it was just that — a dream. And that dream always ended the same way. It always ended with the woman turning around, unable to recognize her own flesh and blood, the woman shoving him from her sight, the woman despising him, the woman beating him, and the woman cursing at him that he was worthless and repulsive, that he was a poorest excuse of a son, and that the world would have been better off if he never existed at all. And it always ended with him in tears.

"How long have you known?"

"When you came to work at St. Dymphna School, the second I saw you, I knew." Raising her head, the corner of her mouth turned lightly in a shy smile, as she reached out cautiously to hold his hand. "You were a spitting image of your father — and still are."

"Why couldn't you just tell me? Why did you wait so long?"

"Oh, Frederick, I wanted to tell you, _desperately_ , but you were doing so well with yourself and I knew you have had a hard life. I felt as though I was intruding and, when I attempted to get closer, to get to know you better, you would push me away and it wounded me deeply. The more you pushed away, the more I knew you weren't ready."

He glanced downward, feeling the squeeze of her fingertips upon his roughened hand. The simplistic gesture was cool yet delicate and such a thing would have been considered anything less than inconsequential to anyone else, but he slithered out of her gentle grip, as if he had pulling his hand out of a vise. 

"Please don't be upset with me, Frederick. Please don't push me away anymore."

The son huffed out a tiny, embittered scoff at his long lost mother: "Ya don't make this easy!" as he clenched his fists exasperatedly, trying his damnest to suppress his anger. "Is Mary Helena your real name?"

"No, it is common for religious orders to assign new names after they after they complete their vows to leave their old lives for another one — a new life, a new name. The Order of the Servants of St. Dymphna re-baptized me as Sister Mary Helena. My real name, however, was Amanda Krueger."

"So, why did you give me up? Why did you abandon me?" he gave voice to the question before he could stop himself and, immediately, he wanted to take it back, but the words had dripped venomously from his tongue, unintentional or not. He didn't want to know the answer and yet he did, _desperately_ so, _urgently_ so, and he knew he would get nothing but the truth from her. He wanted to hear it from her own lips: "Or did All-Loving God tell you to do it?"

"I didn't abandon you, Frederick," the disappointment and dismay of her voice was palpable in the very air he breathed, making it heavy and tense and, quite frankly, awful, that it almost made him feel guilty, _almost_. "There were circumstances beyond my control."

"Circumstances beyond _your_ control?" Shaking his head, try as he might, he couldn't help but laugh spitefully: "That certainly _sounds_ just like Him, doesn't it, Sister? It's all part of His great plan, going through all the motions for the greater good, to teach the His sheep about humility and humiliation? Sounds like He was spyin' on us, leerin' at us, toyin' with us, and ready to condemn us the second we do wrong? Tell me, Sister, how many Hail Marys and Our Fathers did it take to absolve you of your secret shame? Isn't that the Catholic way—?"

Her open palm snappishly struck athwart his cheek, causing his teeth to chatter and crunch his tongue in mid-syllable, and the lightning of shock coursed through every fiber of his system. A long-set rage burned his skin, his blood began to boil, his finger clinched, and he saw red.

"Oh, forgive me, Frederick," his mother embraced her son tightly against her, "but you were _never_ my secret shame. I had such hopes to raise you as my own, you and I against the world, and I was prepared to give up the habit, the Order, everything, to keep you. But, alas, you were _taken_ from me. I attempted to search for you, believe me, but the records were sealed. Even with a court order, there was no hope that I could even lay a finger upon those records. You were lost to me, plain and simple."

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. There was no hint of hate and malice in her voice, but a gentility and warmth that he's heard only once or twice in his lifetime, as the mournful teardrops fell against his hospital gown. She pulled away for a moment and she cradled his face within her tiny hands and, for the first time, he looked at her, truly _looked_ at her: The soft, petite features of her face, the wimple pulled back so severely from her undersized brow, the warmth of her large, almond-shaped eyes where the cruel lines shadow beneath the lids, the soft paleness of her skin, the sculptured blush of her cheekbones, the narrowness of her jaw, the calm that surrounded her, the tenderness she exhumed in her manner, the cupid-bow lips that spoke only words of kindness and bestowed the gentlest smiles.

"You are the only thing left of Him in this world, Frederick, only you, and I will never let God come between us again."

And then, within the confusion surrounding him at every direction, she leaned closer and gifted him with the sweetest and softest of kisses.

Was this love, the love written about, the love described in Hallmark cards, the love a mother gave to her child? Was it so unjudgemental? So altruistic? So unconditional? So instinctual? So eternal? If she knew his secrets, really knew, would she still love him all the same? Still, within that moment, he allowed the dream to happen, if only once:

The little child inside him, lost and alone, slumped his shoulders, his nails clenched into the textile of his blanket over his knees, and his body began to tremble. He had buried his emotions deep inside him, all the frustration, all the pain; he had built the walls around him and built them well, but the pressure became too much to handle now and, sometimes, that's all it took. The emotional dam cracked and burst forth, exposing himself for the first time — in a long, long time.

As she tenderly petted and gently rocked his body against her, her palms rubbed his back and squeezed him close, which caused him to flinch unexpectedly. On any other day, he would have shoved her off him, and yet he drew his arms around her waist in an embrace, keeping her close, as the sheer onslaught of emotions flooded through every extremity of his person, making it all the more unbearable: He couldn't run if he wanted to. He couldn't hide if he tried. He simply couldn't move. He instinctively buried his little face into the comforting folds of her habit and permitted the tears to stream down his eyes freely.

He wanted to hate her. It would have made things much easier if he could. She knew him all along, knew who he was, knew where he came from, knew that he was ignorant of all these things, knew that she was the only one with the answers, knew everything, knew the entire time, and yet, despite all, she loved him as her own the second she recognized him. She did try — yes, goddamnit, did she try — to embrace him, to re-connect with him, to dig some bat squeak of affection out of him and, yes, every time she did, it was he who pushed her further and further away. She was correct when she said he wasn't ready to accept her. He was the one that allowed the lie to continue, not her, by ignoring her advances at every chance he could, therefore he couldn't hate her. Not her. Not his own mother. But he wasn't exactly ready to forgive her either. At least, not quite yet.

Nonetheless, his mind couldn't help but wander at the thought of how different his life could have been if they were allowed to be together, if he never had been taken away to the orphanage, if he had been nurtured a real mother. Would it have been an improvement from the one he had?

In the system, the basic needs of every child were met: He was granted food and water, a roof over his head, clothing on his back, and even a rudimentary education. He was scrubbed clean, bound tightly in blankets, allowed medication when ill, or a band-aid when scratched, and learnt the careful difference between right and wrong with the ever-obliging aid of a stiff rod. They followed all the rules explicitly, especially the rules against affection, of any unnecessary bodily contact, never kissed or coddled, because sparing a bit of love would certainly spoil the child.

And then there was Bonnie, his foster mother, but she was something _different_...

"Now, Frederick," his mother — not Sister Mary Helena, but Amanda Krueger — whispered sweetly to her little one, brushing his mess of hair from his face to reveal his eyes, that mirrored her own eyes, into view, "I'm sure you have questions."

Her child valiantly took in a deep breath, albeit a shaky one, and sniffled: "How exactly did it happen?"

The aging vestal took in a breath with a thoughtful glance upon the ceiling, as if praying for an answer to descend down from the heavens into the room.

"That's quite a _long_ story, actually," she sighed solemnly at the memory. "Your father was like no one I ever knew, nor would there be anyone like him again."

"I have time, I guess. What was the old man like?"

For a long, long moment, she didn't utter a sound. She closed her eyes deliberately, drew in a deep breath through her nose, straightened her posture upon her seat on the bed, and her finger curled wistfully under her chin. Freddy could practically see the little cogs and gears inside turn — her expression unreadable, her stance unreadable. But, much to his surprise, when the nun opened her eyes, she betrayed a small yet secretive smile across her pink lips before she answered succinctly:

"Complicated..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to take a moment to back-track slightly, because we've had some readers comment on how "gross" the story had become in the previous chapter. Really, now? From the first chapter, we announced clearly and concisely that this pastiche is not a "romanticization" or a "demonization" of the character. Due to the seriousness of the subject matter, our intention was to make Freddy as _Freddy_ as possible, to tell who this character was and what he was capable of, and to leave it up to the audience to make up their own conclusions. We made no effort to make an audience feel "comfortable" by making "excuses" or "apologies," because there are _none_ , and it would be a greater disservice if we did, yet we are sensitive enough to be watchful of language, to be careful of our descriptions, to be cautious of vulgarities, and to tread that thin tight-rope between being "creeped out" and being "grossed out." We are not at fault, because we did warn you from the beginning: If the third chapter, with the sex scene with underage Teenage Loretta, didn't turn you off and make you leave beforehand, then why did you continue on? If you don't like it, don't read it and don't expect us to make it "easy" for you, if you cannot personally stomach it, because I assure you this is "tame" in comparison, for the horrors of reality are far _greater_ than the horrors of fiction.
> 
> We've also received comments about how "normal" Freddy appears throughout this pastiche and how his "shift" in the previous chapter turned into something of a (foreseen) "surprise" to them, but I questioned these commentators on how much they truly "saw": As an audience, you are already privy to the knowledge of who and what he is, but the players within the story are not, but here's the question I've been desperately wanting to ask for long, long time: Have you noticed the little red flags?
> 
> We wanted Freddy to possess this appearance of "normalcy," this bland and dull kind of "normalcy," while we (more my own doing than my co-writer's) tooth-picked little red flags, suspicious little clues, that indicated the contrary, knowing that the audience is well aware that he isn't "normal" at all. You may not notice them in the first reading, but you _may_ notice them the second time around, or third time around, but they have _always_ been there. These reflects the reality of the criminal mind: Yes, you talked to the man, got to know him, drank with him, laughed with him, entrusted you kids with him, and yet he fooled you: How did he fool you? Did you ever notice anything odd about him? Anything suspicious at all? Ted Bundy was the guy-next-door, suicide hotline man, the law student, the young Republican, but was also a serial rapist-murderer of some thirty-plus women (although, the actual number may have been well over fifty). Jeffrey Dahmer was this skinny, shy nerd that worked at a chocolate factory, yet killed and cannibalized over a dozen people. Ed Gein was an unassuming farm-handler, the fix-it guy who mended your door, the mama's boy, yet was also a necrophiliac who made lampshades out of human skin. John Wayne Gacy was the guy dressed as a clown for birthday parties, married with stepchildren, and yet had half-dozen corpses rotting under his house. How well to you _really_ know people? How well did you know Frederick Krueger, judging simply on context of the story itself (without the commentary and prior knowledge of the franchise to assist you)? Did you notice that things were just a teeny-tiny bit "off"?
> 
> These little red flags are dismissive in their nature, seemingly inconsequential, and are meant to be "glossed over" the first time; but their intent is that they have _always_ (consciously and subconsciously) been there and they have foreshadowed _everything_ that has come (and will come). Read the chapters again and see if you notice them...
> 
> I am both fascinated by the character of Sister Mary Helena (Amanda Krueger) and frustrated by her. This is primarily due to some dreadful, inconsistent writing within the Englund film franchise. Either way, our version of Sister Mary Helena/Amanda Krueger went through a number of _dramatic_ changes, re-expanding and re-developing her history and personality, once we began the revised edition of this story. She became less of a goodie-goodie, holier-than-thou wet blanket and ended up transforming her into a sinister, complex, eerily frightening character, as the reader will learn in the next few chapters, which chronicle the story of Sister Mary Helena/Amanda Krueger. She easily became one of our favourite characters as a result of the changes and we hope you enjoy her as much as we do...


	8. The Devil's Price

Forty-five years ago.

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless night of the coldest winter, on the Vigil of the Nativity, on the eve of Christmas, when the clouds hung oppressively low and heavy in the Heavens, the ethereal shadow of St. Dymphna's Psychiatric Hospital stood isolated and alone on a stark, stern landscape under a pall of desolate white, spattered alongside a few rank sedges and trunks of decayed trees. Yet despite the insufferable gloom and the deathly stillness of the snow and ice outside, there was no stillness within its bleak walls and its black turrets, for the barred windows of East Wing Tower, which housed one hundred of the most violent and most dangerous wards, betrayed a rabble of activity.

Sister Mary Helena's eyes darted feverishly about at the sight before her. The Hundred were stripped of their clothes, like pagans, dancing through the labyrinthine hallways, with its stone walls splattered in grime and blood. Madmen brandished broomsticks, bedposts, and the splintered remnants of furniture. Upon the floor was the corpse of a doctor with his skin ripped from his back. A narcissist brushed his bald scalp to a shattered mirror in his hand, oblivious to the chaos that surrounded him, as a sycophant chewed the fallen glass between his toothless gums. One rode atop of another's shoulders, slapping its horse's face, while the third attempted to beat the rider off with an andiron. A pyromaniac, his skin grotesquely scarred and blistered and melted, skipped merrily while dragging a number of burning bedsheets across his bare back, trailing a cloud of blackened smog behind him. An ailing man carried another in his arms, screaming hymns to the Heavens, in a demented _pietà_ , while another popped the eyes of a dead guard from its skull, removed his own, laughing at his pain, and shoved the bloody spheres into his own sockets. A withered crone with a hideous grin held a large syringe in her hands and impaled the needle under her own skirt, forcefully pushing down the piston with her thumbs. A fellow sister, a nun, was pinned against a wall, set upon by a group of lascivious miscreants, their limbs all intertwined with hers in an orgiastic frenzy, each of them taking turns, as she begged for mercy. She saw her amongst the crowd, _her_ , and cried her name in Merciful Christ for help; but Mary Helena held her hands against her ears and her body shivered at the shrill of the voice, as a lunatic quartet, in their night drawers, trundled in and played a jaunty tune.

Suddenly, there was silence. A gaping stillness.

As the Hundred turned in attention to her, the holy woman's heart leapt into her throat. They drifted around her and lurched forward, moaning and panting, as their greasy palms tore at the spotless robes of her holy habit, and she screamed. She ran from them and bumped into the chest of a blackened figure that appeared out of the shadows, like a wraith, and its wings surrounded her in protection. She squeezed her eyes shut and sobbed against it. It bore its teeth and hissed at the unruly crones who backed away in terror.

"Did they hurt you, child?" soothed the Goetic figure, resting his chin upon her head, petting her veil.

Gone was the grimy patient's uniform that so offended his person. He had somehow plundered one of the storage rooms where the patients' belongings were locked away, often never to be seen again, and retrieved one of his old effects — an all-black, tailor-made suit with grey pinstripes, with a crisp white shirt, a thin grey cravat, and black fedora perched snugly upon his head. She might not have recognized him if it were not for the sound of his voice, burying her face into the warmth of his chest, as her smile caressed against the soft folds of his attire and she shook her head in response.

"You've done well, my child," his eyes glanced upon his freed inmates, taking her hand to his lips and licking her knuckles, which caused her to inhaled sharply and her face to flush pink, while he removed the stolen keys from her quivering fingers. "Come, I have a surprise for you — call it a gift of Sacrament, if you will."

Taking her hand into his, he escorted her down the winding labyrinth, away from the maniacal crowds, away of the rabble and chaos, led her down a familiar corridor, and opened the massive double doors into a cathedral-like chapel. She knew this place well, with its tall, vertical walls, pointed arches, ribbed vaults, flying buttresses, clustered columns, and elegant traceries. She had, many a time, knelt before the pews in prayers that were never answered, stretched out on the floor in humility that was never appreciated, bowed before the sculpted feet of the Crucified Lord that never loved her, kissed the robes of the blessed fathers and mothers in obedience that were never worthy to wear them, sang the "Hail Marys" and "Our Fathers" that were never heard her, and lived by the Holy Rule that never gave her perfection.

Even though the area had been garlanded with ornaments and evergreens in preparation for the vigil of Midnight Mass, her head tilted curiously when she noticed something out of place. She walked up the central nave towards the grand altar of St. Dymphna's and placed before the mensa under the canopy-like chancel rested an elderly man strapped and gagged with duct tape onto an ornate priest's chair, helplessly sitting in his own urine, upon the predella footpace. His muffled cries called out to her.

It was the hospital director and head psychologist, Dr. Isaac.

"You're going to kill him?" she murmured.

"No, of course not," he let out an almost pleasant chuckle from his throat. " _You_ are."

The nun looked up at the figure in surprised, stepping back, feeling as if she would fall. A squeaky, indistinct voice implored her to turn and run, but he forced her closer to her "gift."

"Must I spell it out for you?" sneered the figure, gesturing to the man whose words couldn't pass through the fabric of his gag. " _This_ is the face of everything that is wrong with the world today. This is the little bastard who tried to tear us apart. He almost destroyed everything we were working towards. All of our work undone by this parasite. Dr. Isaac has outlived his usefulness and that is why he has to die."

"No, I can't do this. It's wrong."

He let out another laugh: "By whose definition? God's? The rules of this world don't apply to people like us. We're better than that — superiour. You're talking the way they trained you. That wasn't how you were born. It is conformity, submission, to a pretentious society that frowns upon its own vicious nature. We don't need our lives dictated to by some bureaucratic and, above all, flawed system dedicated to some fictionalized invisible man. It isn't you."

"But he's a human being."

"And as such, he is of no value."

"I can't! Please, I'm not like this—!"

"I don't understand why this is so difficult. People, like you and I, were born with a strength of intellect and an emotional forbearance. We are the chosen ones. I did this to get you to see, to prepare you, to _liberate_ you. This is the only way they'll ever allow us to be together." He pulled her into his embrace, resting her weeping head upon his chest, rocking her almost tenderly, as he spoke in a hushed whisper: "Join me. Be as I am. My equal in all things." He removed a bronze candlestick holder from the altar and presented to her with a smile. "You're the celebrant. Anoint him."

She shook her head in despair and confusion, clinging to the folds of his tailored jacket, and wept. Her conscience wanted one thing, but her heart desired another. "I don't know what to do..."

"It's easy. Just let her go."

"No," she held her throbbing head, sensing her world was spinning out of control, her humanity held up tenuously by a short, singular thread, "it _hurts_..."

"I know, I know," he shushed, as his thumbs brushed away the tears that streamed down her cheeks. "And it will, at first. It always does. But then liberation comes at a small price. Your true self is Amanda. That's who I want. Mary Helena is simply a façade — an identity you have been masquerading under to hide your true self. So, if there's anyone I'm going to kill today, it's _her_."

A loud, inarticulate moan interrupted from Dr. Isaac, struggling against his restraints for attention.

"Some people have no manners," snapped the black figure to the interloper, as he pushed his protégé away, and swatted the back of his hand across the director's face savagely, snarling as he did so, "and I hate it when people mumble!"

When he ripped the gag from the victim's mouth, the doctor cried out to his assistant in a frantic plea: "Sister, help me! Please help me! Mary Helena, I've known you since you were a child. I knew your father, your mother. I never meant for this to happen. I was only looking out for you, to protect you. Please, Mary, help me! I'm sorry! If I'd known, I have never let you near this _monster_ —!"

" _STTTTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPPPPP!_ "

Her scream echoed upon each of the four stone walls of the chapel and the clerestory windows clattered in-between their tracery frames. Raising her head, her watery eyes, inflamed with such hatred and savagery, seared venomous daggers into the contemptible, little creature before her.

The thread, that singular thread, had snapped.

"Don't you _dare_ call him that! He's the only thing that has ever made any sense in my entire life!"

"Sister," begged the director between his sobs, "do you even know what he's done? What he's capable of? What you're turning into? Listen to him when he speaks, you can hear the fork in his tongue—!"

"I don't care," she replied in defiance, revelling the newly-found freedom upon her tastebuds; "I _looovve_ him, more than I've mistaken anything as love before, and _I'm_ going to prove it."

"Do you want to prove your love for me?" asked the figure, as the corner of his mouth twisted into a smirk of cruel seduction, leaning his forehead against hers with a suggestive lint.

"More than anything," smiled she, blushing happily, and sighed against his lips barely a whisper away, but the woman glanced back at the pitiful sight of the hospital director sniveling in a puddle of his own urine with a tiny pout. "But how do I do it?"

"Easy," he handed her the bronze candlestick. "Just let go."

The nun gripped the object in her small hands, feeling its weight and coolness of the metal, and ascended the steps of the bema, like Mount Moriah, towards the Sacrificial Lamb who sat bound and ready upon the threshing floor of the grand altar.

"My name is Amanda Krueger, remember it."

When the doctor attempted to open his mouth again, she swung with all her might, as the heavy object made contact with his skull with a deafening crack, and the chair tumbled onto its side with its occupant. Her laughter rang across the chapel when she sank to her knees and lifted the candlestick above her head and struck again, hearing the bone fracture beneath her weapon. While the spray of red splattered against her snow-white vestures, she continued her hammering, crushing through the eye socket, splitting the jaw, mashing the brain into paste, until she heard the bronze clang against the granite flooring, while the blood cascaded down the steps in a red river.

"I think he's dead, my dear," the figure halted the candlestick in mid-air, admiring her work, as he would a painting.

The woman looked up at him.

She had become more beautiful than ever before, a woman reborn, with an enthralled grin and a divine sparkle in her eye, as they danced eagerly between blood spattering that stained her face.

"How did I do?"

"Very well."

When he extended his hand to her, she accepted the offer and stumbled into a stand and, gazing into his dark, abyssal eyes with a deep, rapturous sigh, embraced her teacher, her liberator, her confessor, her saviour, her lord and master, her messiah, her other self, with open arms and, above all, an open heart.

He shed her of veil and coif from her bowed head, revealing a crown of soft, cropped brown hair, and she trembled when his nails grazed her throat. His very touch seared her flesh. He eased her out of the holy vestments, soiled with blood, allowing the dress to pool around her ankles, and freed her body from its restraints. She stood, exposed to the flesh; every facet of her being — her thoughts, her passions, her secrets — splayed bare before him.

Hesitantly, her fingertips reached out and touched his brow, exploring the angle of his bones and sensitivity of his skin, and gathered courage to cup her hands alongside his hollow cheeks in a soft caress, which caused him to twist his talons around her left hand. As he lingered his lips upon the pulse point of her wrist, she watched him guide her finger into his mouth, which caused her breath to flutter in surprise, seizing a silver ring, a symbol of all her "perpetual" vows, between his yellowed teeth, and pre-offered it to her with a gritted, leering smile. The woman froze a moment, her blue eyes searched his with uncertainty, before thrusting her lips upon his, casting aside all humility and amenity, with an unbridled eagerness that both frightened and exhilarated her. She slithered her tongue through the centre of the band, plucking it into her mouth, and allowed the object to fall dead between them, as she entangled her arms around his neck. The distinctive rusty and salty scent of blood, not unlike a surgical room, could be tasted in the air when she pulled him into plundered another deep, desperate kiss. She was no longer a Bride of Christ. She was his Bride now.

As tenderness warred with intensity, their breath quickened when their lips met and tongues duelled through a haze of lust, channeling the torrent of emotion that had bubbled within her. Her hands explored and studied the sculpted muscles of his shoulders and chest that hid under the layers of fabric and moved over his firm backside, drawing his body closer against her, as she grounded her arousal against his erection invitingly, which burned in need, and her eyes begged for him, but he would not appease her.

When he moved back to disrobe, the figure circled the vestal virgin, like a ravenous wolf, studying every curve and crack — every perfection, every flaw — of her exterior with his cold gaze. He peeled off each article of clothing, one by one, from his hat to his shoe, before standing bare before her with an aura of power that surrounded him — and, for a moment, it frightened her and she felt a chill. She dipped her head and covered herself in a moment of shame and indignity. Emotion and desire had taken her mind past logic and coordination, yet his control was nothing more than _absolute_.

She watched his wraith-like fingers encircle the delicate width of her wrists, uncovering herself to his will, stretching her arms high above her head, and he twisted her around to face the Lord's Table. He stood behind her with a deft touch, so light, that she thought she had imagined it. He slowly ran his fingertips from her wrists down her forearms and caressed the curve of her shoulders. Sweeping off the rubrics and relics from their appointed places, she bent her naked body out upon Lord's Table, as a vessel of Blessed Sacrament, with her stomach laid flat against the slab, her fingers grip its sides, and she waited. Her eyes beheld a large cross perched high above her where a crowned man nailed upon its beams stared down before her, his bearded mouth agape, his eyes filled with tears of blood, aghast at the sight playing out before him. She will give him a show that would make the angels weep and the saints gasp for air.

Blindly gripping the tablecloth underneath her, balling the fabric in her hands, he could feel his talons slither across her skin, tracing the edge of both her breasts, and glide further down to her hips. She peered behind inquisitively, but she could not make out his face, nor his expression. The woman jumped at the unexpected sensation of his teeth and tongue when she felt him drink the warm, sweet nectar that trickled from the velvet folds of her sex, causing a plea of whimpers to rise from her throat, while his tongue teased and tormented her with slow deliberation, swirling it around her petals and suckling upon her flowering nub, as her eyes squeezed together tightly, gasping, her toes curled, and her hips rose eagerly to meet his sinful kisses.

This was everything she had prayed for — and more.

Ever so slowly, positioning her rear and luring her hips back into his lap, he glided the swollen head of his member betwixt her weeping slits, which sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine, and pushed against her maidenhead without success for her tightness had barricaded him and refused him entrance, causing her to whimper in objection. Pushing forward, as if in slow motion, he punctured and tore through her, she lurched underneath his touch in surprise, which she roused a bewildered cry at the sudden war of pain and pleasure that crashed, like a tidal wave, within her, feeling the sensitive membrane constrict and tighten around him, awakening a pyre in her stomach that she had never felt before.

Although she mewled at the scathing pain of her injury, her blue eyes widened and her nails dug into the fabric of the tablecloth, as he bore himself into her and filled her, making her aware of every glorious inch of him. Blood began to ooze out from her entrance, seeping from her very depths and dribbling down her inner thighs, soaking through layers of the linen, as trails of red ran along her leg. Their movements were deep and profound, shaken to their cores by their mating, which had been so long in the making.

Gradually, salty tears streaked rivulets across her blood-splattered cheeks and sweat drizzled down her knitted brow. She began to thrash desperately and sob inarticulately, silently urging him to continue. She could feel the hooked claws of his fingers graze along the sensitive skin of her back and interlace through her brown hair, twisting and curling the soft tendrils in-between his sharpened talons, before he clutched a handful into a fist and wrenched her back forcibly, and she let out half-yowl, half-screech of surprise, virtually lifting her off the slab. Her body vibrated and quavered, clinging to the corners of the Lord's Table to steady herself, savouring the sweltering hiss of his breath against her neck, as each of his movements grew to an almost bone-jarring pace. With another violent pull, he wrenched her hair back yet again, securing her head and gripped her waist in place against him, as their coupling increased in tempo.

Unable to hold the floodgates back a moment longer, tremours overtook her body, gasps of pleasure grew in depth and speed, and waves of ecstasy washed over her, while all rational thought fell away with each act. A riot of sensations, painful and pleasurable, frenzied and ferocious, overwhelmed her, twisting into savagery and brutality, as he coaxed her towards the edge, convulsing in surprise when she climaxed for the first time, wholly unprepared for the sensation that rippled across her entire being.

Is this what sin feels like? And if this was sin, why must it feel so good and feel so right?

With every breath and moan expressed volumes, her teeth grated, her muscles spasmed, and her hips rocked in union with is in feverish need, as she surrendered to him with their juices soaking through the bloodied sheets. Teetering on the precipice between agony and ecstasy, her muscles contracted hard around his arousal when he erupted deep inside her, his seed flooding into her womb, and she elicited a fierce, rapturous cry of release that shook and echoed across the stone walls. Her eyelids flew open and she gazed, as if for the first time, at the figure above — and saw _God_.

"My Amanda… Mine..."

Neither of them spoke another word until they joined together in Holy Communion yet again. Each motion in sync with the other, the stone walls of the church echoed with the deafening screams of agape and the urgent sound of slapping flesh, with the stench of death and the pallour of fleshly mortality in the air. They were now together: They were one, in flesh and in bone. The rest of the world no longer mattered to her, nothing mattered, but Him. She had no more use for the fools that populated here than He. It was through Him that she found meaning, a purpose. She knew that she would love Him so completely that she would devote her entire existence to Him, that He would be her first and last thought of every day, and when she spoke of "Gods" and "Lords" and "Saviours," it would be of Him and only of Him. She was in His world now and, if His world harrowed into the depths of Hell, that was the happiest place to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally meant to be Chapter IX. I've been stuck on the original Chapter VIII for well over a year, which I apologize dearly for, and I ended up so indescribably _frustrated_ with it, as it ended up being too "tropey"; therefore, I was to deleted it entirely and pushed what was Chapter IX into Chapter VIII. I apologize it took my arrogant ass so long to realize this. I could have saved me a lot of time and drama.
> 
> This chapter uses a ton of metaphoric language and allegoric rhetoric that I sincerely, sincerely hope is not lost upon the reader, as the characters _unabashedly_ "mock" and "insult" religious context and iconographies here — from a "representation" of Sodom and Gomorrah, to a reference to the Lamentation of Christ (or _Pietà_ ), to an "re-enactment" of the Binding/Sacrifice of Isaac, to a full-on "mockery" of the Sacrament of the Altar (or Holy Communion), to a psilanthropist "take" of the Virginal Conception, to a "corruption" of the Assumption of Mary and the Ascension of Christ (where the pronoun "he" transforms to "He"), to a reference to the Harrowing of Hell — and I make no apologies for them because, admittedly (for a Buddhist with a life-long, on-and-off fascination for theology/philosophy as well as abnormal psychology), this was _fuuuunnn_ to write! This is the transformation of Sister Mary Helena from the Bride of Christ to the Bride of the God/Devil via the Featured Maniac (Robert Englund) as depicted in _DREAM CHILD_. It's left it for the reader to decide whether she was an instigator, or a victim, whether she did the deed by choice, or was seduced into it.


End file.
